


The Silence Between Us

by daphnethewriter



Series: No More Heroes [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: American Sign Language, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Muteness, POV Second Person, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve, Protective Steve Rogers, Reader-Insert, Relationship(s), Romance, Sign Language, Steve Rogers Feels, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 04:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9803252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnethewriter/pseuds/daphnethewriter
Summary: Everything would be different if you hadn't gone to work that day. Maybe you would still be normal.Instead, you're dangerous, a threat to be contained.You don't want to be powerful. You don't want to be special. You don't want to be an Avenger.But there's something about the way Steve looks at you--warm and soft and trusting--that makes you feel like you're still yourself.





	1. Chapter 1

You shouldn't even be here.

It's supposed to be your day off, damn it. The first _real_ one in three weeks of double shifts and overtime. But Margy's kid got sick and you are just the biggest sucker for the kid excuse. So here you are at the hospital—again—on your day off—again—doing the nursing rounds of the pediatric floor— _again_.

You try not to be bitter—some of these kids are terminal, for Christ's sake—but it's hard to keep a caring and kind attitude after the tenth hour on your feet. 

Sick kids, man… they get you right in the heart every time. The staff keeps the halls and rooms in the ward bright. There are always toys and video games, but it's hard to ignore the bags under the parents' eyes, or the laughter that turns to coughing too quickly, or the longing looks the kids give to the world outside their windows.

Of all the kids, Melody is your favorite. She has been since she first came to the ward with bacterial meningitis. Her illness had many complications and, ultimately, left her almost completely deaf. Yet she is a ray of sunshine. Always smiling, always happy.

You wave to her as you walk into the recreation room and revel in the delight on her face. Kids have favorites too and it's nice to be someone's.

[happy] you sign, indicating the smile on her face. You've learned some ASL during Melody's time in the hospital, nothing more than the basics, but the joy on her face the first time you signed to her was addictive.

She beams. [-????-] It's a sign that you don't recognize, so you repeat it back to her the best you can. She fingerspells it, as she always does when you don't know what she means. [A-V-E-N-G-E-R-S]

The Avengers. Not the real ones, of course, just cosplayers who come to the hospital to brighten the kids' day. They're a routine fixture on the pediatric floor. The college student who plays Captain America even asked you out for dinner the last time they were there. Not that you have time for dating.

The cosplayers enter and, as a murmur of excitement ripples through the room, you slip out to take your first break in three hours. The bench outside the front entrance is your favorite. An elderly couple walk by in companionable silence, the wife pushing her husband in a wheelchair. A woman carries sensible heels in her hand as she rushes past. A man in glasses follows, hands in his pockets. There's nothing remarkable about him, but he catches your attention. Something about his face rubs you the wrong way. Everyone who comes to the hospital has a similar expression, like fear and hope combined, but he's passive. Almost… bored.

You take a breath and turn your attention back to the trickle of the fountain, letting the flow of the water lull you into a trance. If you look in the right direction, you can ignore the bustle of the sick and injured. Your friends from home suggested you take a different job, a different hospital, a different city—somewhere that doesn't have the crime rate of Los Angeles. A few years ago, you would have scoffed at the notion. But now… the long hours are wearing on you. Perhaps a change of pace wouldn't be so bad.

A knot forms in your stomach, the tiniest ripple of fear. You look around. Something is wrong, but what?

An explosion rocks the hospital. The shock knocks you to the ground and, through the ringing in your ears, the screams of those running from the hospital reach you. You lift your eyes. You can't focus on the building in front of you, not with your head swimming.

Before you can think, you're on your feet, buffeted by the crowds running out as you stagger toward the entrance. Sirens blare in the distance. The further you get, the more you regain your senses until you're running through the halls, squeezing through disoriented patients, visitors, and staff. You find those that are trapped and direct them toward the exit. It's slow progress, but so far people are only dazed.

The first dead body is a doctor. He was a surgeon, not someone you knew, but who was well liked by the staff. He lies against the far wall, his neck bent at an impossible angle. You keep moving. Your progress is slow now since the hallway is more rubble than tile. Cries for help echo off the collapsed walls and you race toward them.

There is no warning before the second explosion.

 

+++

 

Darkness and pain. So much pain. You can't tell where your body is—if you even have one anymore. Your existence is a fragmented, infinite universe of agony. You scream until your lungs run out of air, crying out for someone, _anyone_ to help. Eventually, you can't sustain even that. You have no idea how much time passes while you remain buried, but you stop hoping for rescue and start longing for a different release from the torture.

 

+++

 

Wanda floats over what is left of the Los Angeles General Hospital. Two explosions, five minutes apart. Whoever did this was sending a message.

Message received.

"Wanda?" Steve's voice crackles through her earpiece.

"It's not good." Three days of search and rescue. No survivors, only bodies. The edge of terror lurks behind her focus. If she stops, even for an instant, she'll be a child back in Sokovia, huddled in the ruins of her home, trapped with her dead parents. A wave of her hand raises a collapsed outer wall.

She reaches out with her mind for any glimmer of humanity in the graveyard of concrete and brick. The rubble offers no response. She lands, toes touching on the only flat surface she can find. The scene is too familiar, as if it's ripped from the TV screens. A foot, too small for an adult, peeks through the ruins of a wall and Wanda places her hand over her mouth. The Avengers were supposed to prevent this sort of disaster. A flick of her wrist removes the concrete that crushes the child. Such a small form, broken beyond repair, eyes open and unseeing. But no fear in the features. This boy was lucky, dead before he knew what happened. Wanda closes his eyes, a tear rolling down the side of her cheek.

A stirring at the corner of her mind seizes her attention. A person. A _living_ person.

Wanda scrambles over the debris. "Steve! There's a survivor."

She holds on to their mind, pulling it from the darkness it shrinks into. _No, no, no. You have to survive. Stay with me._ They are in so much pain, their mind flinching from even Wanda's gentle touch. She tosses rubble aside, mixing her powers with her hands, too focused on her target to care about the cuts that the broken glass and twisted metal leave.

 

+++

 

"Don't try to move. You're in a lot of pain."

The nurse doesn't have to tell you that. Pain is your middle name now, an old friend and constant companion. Your throat convulses as you try to expel the tube the doctors inserted to help you breathe. You try to grab it, but restraints keep your hands at your side.

She lays a soothing hand on your forehead. "I know. I know. But you need to heal. Let the machine do its job for now. Your body needs to focus on resting."

A tear slips from the corner of your eye. You don't want this. You weren't supposed to get out of the rubble. You had already made your peace with death. You continue your struggle, but only jostle your already tender injuries. When you try to scream all that comes out is a muffled groan. The nurse presses a button and your awareness fades. Before you drop out, the tiles on the ceiling shake.

 

+++

 

The doctors take the breathing tube out. They tell you that you're recovering quickly, but it doesn't feel that way. Every moment stretches into eternity. More struggle. More pain. Your throat is raw from screaming for days under the rubble.  You don't try to speak. Even swallowing hurts too much.

A specialist arrives from New York to talk to you about what happened. _A terrorist attack. A senseless tragedy. You were lucky, you survived._

You don't feel lucky. You still feel crushed on all sides, enclosed in a tomb of debris.

You watch him, wary and curious. Specialists don't travel for patients. Why had he come to see you specifically? He seems familiar, but you can't place where from. The memory lurks at the side of your mind, teasing you just out of reach. You almost convince yourself that it's crazy but then there's something about the way that the light glints off his glasses…

The specialist wants you to try talking _._ "Just say something. Your name. Your favorite color. The ABC's. Anything." His smile is too friendly, like he knows something that you don't, but the expression doesn't extend to his eyes. They're cold, sizing you up.

He says you're traumatized. That as long as you stay silent, you'll relive the experience over and over again. You don't see how talking is going to change any of that. It will only hurt the same way that everything hurts. The memory isn't going to go away.

But, damn, he's insistent. "Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

You glower at him.

"I know it hurts. But this will help."

 _Like hell, it will_. He won't go away, so you give in and open your mouth to tell him to fuck off.

Words aren't what come out. A screech rocks the room instead. The instruments shake, knocking into the walls. The specialist falls backwards.

Memory seizes your senses and you're back in the explosion at the hospital as the floor drops from under you. You shrink back in your bed, your hands tangling in your hair. This must be it. Another bomb, an earthquake, something that will bury you in that horrible pain. You cry, rocking back and forth as the room around you shakes. Something cool rushes into your arm from your IV and everything turns to black.

 

+++

 

The staff whispers outside your room. Something happened and they won't tell you what it was, but there is fear in their eyes now.

"Hello?" You whisper the words to the empty room, trying your voice for the first time since the incident with the specialist. The screech returns and the cabinet facing you shudders.

You draw back in the bed, your hand clasped over your mouth. The cabinet stops shaking. A shuddering cold courses through your limbs and your heart hammers against your chest as if it could escape. The monitor attached to you beeps in alarm and a nurse rushes in. Another sedative, another blank stretch of unconsciousness.

Thank God.

 

+++

 

"I'm going to need security tapes since the incident. Maybe a few days before. Right after admission."

You've never seen Tony Stark up close before now, but he looks just like he does in TV interviews: superior, smug, and slightly bored. His eyes rove around the room as if they can't keep up with the speed at which his brain works.

A harried hospital staffer follows him. "Mr. Stark, we can't just –"

Stark doesn't let her finish, keeping up a constant stream of commentary as if no one and everyone is listening. "Medical records, scans, notes, everything. Just put it in a box, we'll take it with us."

"Take…? Mr. Stark, you can't take a patient!"

Stark's eyebrow rises in a perfectly groomed arc. "We have top specialists and state of the art facilities. You have no idea what's wrong."

His attention finally lands on you, as if you hadn't been sitting in the room throughout his interruption. "Hey there, sweetheart." He rubs his hands together. "Ready to go?"

Your eyes narrow and you pull back farther into the bed.

He's not fazed. He looks to the staffer, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Can we have a second?" She backs out of the room.

Stark bounces on the balls of his feet. "I think we"—he waves between his body and yours—"both know what's going on here. At least, I know what's going on here. You must. Otherwise, you would have told me off already. I've seen the tapes. You pack a punch. Any idea how you do it?"

You don't respond.

His lips press into a thin line. "We have a couple of options. You can come with me and meet with some of the best doctors in the field of enhanced beings." He looks out the window. "Or you can come with me and we'll keep you in a cell until we can figure out what kind of threat you are."

Your resolve wavers. He couldn't do that, could he? You lunge for the notepad the nurses placed on your side table and scribble furiously. The act sends a sharp spike of pain through your still injured wrist.

 _I haven't done anything_. You hold the note up for him to see.

He shrugs. "Maybe. But you're one of the only survivors at the site of a terrorist attack. And you're the only one that's displayed any sort of powers." Powers. Powers like what had been going on with your voice ever since the explosion.

More scribbling. _I want to go home._

His smile is sympathetic, but there is resolve behind it. "We need to know what happened first."

When someone with Tony Stark's resources wants something, he gets it. The hospital has you ready for transport in under an hour. It doesn't matter if Stark says that this is about getting you better, it feels an awful lot like kidnapping.

You refuse to be sedated, even though the doctors claim that it's for your own good. The fact that they're lying to you is the worst part. You're a nurse, damn it. You know when a patient needs to be put out. Patients aren't sedated for transfers. They're given painkillers, maybe. So, if they want you to be knocked out, it's not for your own comfort. They think you're a threat.

Arguing the point with Stark is infuriating.

He.

Never.

Stops.

Talking.

Even if you could speak, you wouldn't get a word in edgewise. By the time you've written out a response to one objection, he's already moved on to three more. You manage to come to an uneasy compromise. You'll stay conscious, but you'll still be restrained. By the time that's decided, you want to throw your notebook in his smug face.

An ambulance, a private jet, a helicopter, and a shiny black SUV later, you arrive at… well, you'd say it was a military complex, and maybe that's still accurate, except for the giant Avengers logo stamped on everything in sight. You could have stepped into a science fiction movie, for all you know. There is tech everywhere, even on things that have no business being electronic. Every surface is either glass or a computer or both.

They don't restrain you anymore. And you're not in a hospital. You're in a room, like an apartment suite, but there's glass on all sides of it and even you can tell that it's made to withstand something powerful. Nothing breaks out of this. You don't feel like much of a threat, with your broken ribs and skin stained black and blue, but you don't feel like yourself either. Your new cell just reinforces what you've felt ever since Stark swaggered into your hospital room: you're dangerous.

 

+++

 

You know it's a nightmare. It's not real and yet the walls that close in on you are all too tangible. The cold concrete presses against your skin, your bones cracking under the pressure. Your body fragments and contorts as tons of rubble force it into impossible shapes. You scream until your throat feels as if it will shatter.

You wake when the ceiling fan collapses above your bed. It misses you, but just barely. You should stop screaming; you're the one making the room shake, breaking the lamps and pictures, but you can't escape the panic that slithers over your body like a straitjacket.

The screams only end when you gag on the bile that rises in your throat. You've left your suite in shambles. The sparse furnishings that had occupied it lie broken on the far side of the room. Each breath rasps through your throat like a death rattle and your heart pounds against your ribcage, hitting so hard you could swear it shakes the bones. The sound may have dissipated, but the fear that caused it has not. You pull your knees to your chest and press your hand over your mouth, choking on the sobs that try to escape your chest.

 

+++

 

Steve Rogers hates briefings, not that he would tell anyone that. He prefers action, purpose, missions. Sitting still makes him feel as if his skin is too small for his body. He can list twenty things he would rather be doing than sitting in the main conference room as the medical team gives a rundown on the bombing survivor that Tony transferred to the compound. There are a million problems out in the world. Should he really be sitting here while he could be out somewhere fixing one of them?

There is no life outside of work. What would be the point? There's only the mission and, after that, the next one. He sprints from crisis to crisis, dreading the days between, when the silence and solitude remind him that everyone he ever loved is dead, dying, or a brainwashed Hydra assassin. And every time he thinks about that, he wants to punch something.

Unfortunately, there aren't any targets available right now. Intel on the L.A. hospital bombings has hit a wall in the weeks since they'd happened. This should have been an open and shut case, another terrorist attack. Except, no one stepped forward to claim responsibility and the police haven't found the incendiary devices. Whatever caused the massacre is a complete enigma. It doesn't sit right with Steve.

The only lead is you, a survivor from the attack, one of a handful in a tragedy that left hundreds dead. The information that the medical team can gather from you might be the key to finding out what happened.

Dr. Cho is showing a lot of charts and using a lot of words that Steve isn't familiar with. Medicine wasn't high on the list of things he wanted to catch up with in the future. But even he sees what's wrong with a massive spike in the measurements for radiation.

"…whatever happened," Dr. Cho says, "it involved more gamma radiation than the human body is built to withstand. We ordered blood work on more of the victims and they showed the same results."

"What does that mean?" Natasha leans against the wall. She rarely takes a seat, preferring the easy access to exits that standing provides.

"Most of the victims died from radiation poisoning. We didn't notice before because the building collapse was so catastrophic no one questioned the cause of death. The hospital didn't even look for radiation when they ran her blood work. There was no reason to suspect that she was exposed."

"How did she survive?" Steve asks.

"That's the thing… she shouldn't have. I've never heard of anyone exposed to this level of gamma radiation who survived."

"Yes, you have," Natasha gives Steve a meaningful look.

"Banner." Steve's stomach twists. "We're looking at another Hulk?"

"No," says Tony. "The gamma may have caused it, but the result is completely different."

"And what result is that?" Natasha asks.

Dr. Cho changes from charts to a recorded video of a hospital room. It loops over the same footage of you screaming in your hospital bed as the furniture flies against the wall. "Normal sound is created by changes in pressure in the air. But her vocal chords amplify the waves to such a degree that they can _move_ things."

"That's more than just moving something," Natasha says, watching as the hospital room shudders.

"Is she dangerous?" Steve asks.

"She's uncontrolled," Dr. Cho answers. "Until we can do more tests, we have no idea what she's capable of."

"We need Banner." Tony looks to Steve. "If this is anything like what happened to him, he'll be better than anyone. He's the world's foremost expert on gamma radiation."

Steve rubs his fingers over the bridge of his nose. "He is also God knows where right now."

"We still need him."

Steve turns his attention to Natasha. "Ideas?"

"I have some rocks I can look under." She crosses her arms.

"Give it a shot." He looks back to Tony. "Anything new on the explosions?"

Tony pulls up the holographic reconstruction of the blast site. "We found the point of origin, but there's no incendiary device."

"What about Extremis? Could AIM be involved?"

Tony's lips press together. Extremis is a sore spot, not that Steve blames him. Tony almost lost Pepper to Killian's craziness. Having someone you love experimented on is something Steve doesn’t wish on anyone.

"The heat signature wasn't high enough. Extremis vaporizes, this is something else."

Steve looks back to the monitor. "What are we going to do about her?"

"Keep her here." Tony shrugs. "Keep her quiet."

 

+++

 

Today you leave your cell. You're still accompanied by a medical team, but they must have reached the end of what they can do while keeping you inside the unbreakable glass walls of your room.

They guide you to the elevator, down twenty floors, and through the hallways to the compound's hospital. Despite the isolation of the past weeks and your growing despair that you will never leave this building, your spirits lift. The smell of disinfectant feels like home and the medical equipment is soothing in its familiarity. Medicine in something you know, something you can control. You belong here.

But they didn't bring you here to do your job.

The sight of the MRI machine—no more than three feet wide inside—sends a forceful shiver down your spine. You stop walking, but the combined momentum of the medical team carries you forward. Shaking your head in protest can only get you so far. You can't explain to them why something as routine as an MRI frightens you, or what it's like to have walls close in on you from all sides, or how you can only take shallow breaths because invisible bands bind your chest. 

The medical team smiles and reassures you. _It will all be fine. It's just a routine test_. They have no idea. There is nothing routine about shoving you into a plastic coffin. You plead with your eyes for mercy. If you can just make them understand…

They don't. Instead, they step out of the room to start the scan. You swallow your fear, willing your body to hold still. You try to calm down, tell yourself that you aren't in danger. These are safe walls; they won't collapse. You screw your eyes shut and try to imagine that you're in an open field instead of locked in a three-foot space, surrounded by tons of metal waiting to suffocate you. It doesn't work.

The scream erupts from something deep inside you, like it's coming from your soul, not your lungs. It echoes through the room, mixing with the sound of tearing plastic and twisting metal. You struggle against the restraints that hold you to the table until they too break free.

 

+++

 

Steve runs to the compound hospital, mind and body on full alert. The security alarm sounds in the background, shrill and insistent. The med staff fill the hallway, exchanging terrified glances. Steve is the first Avenger to make an appearance. "What happened?"

A dozen lab techs start talking at once.

"—put her in the MRI—"

"—shreds—"

"—just went ballistic—"

"—never seen anything—"

Steve holds a hand up for silence. Through the Plexiglas window of the control room, he surveys the damage. The room is a wreck of strewn machinery that litters every corner. Lights dangle from the ceiling, swinging and sparking at intervals. Massive cracks run through the walls, reaching into the adjoining spaces.

Geez. Steve has faced down Loki, Hydra, even the Hulk. He doesn't get spooked. But with them, he knew what he was up against. You… no one knows what you're capable of doing. Not even you.

"Where is she now?"

"Still in there. We couldn't risk going in."

Steve nods. It's the right call. Your powers are undefined.

One of the staff hands Steve a tranquilizer gun. "This should be enough to put her down without getting too close. Be careful."

Steve hefts his shield in front of him and palms the gun. He opens the door, turning the knob by inches as if to be imperceptible. A low hum fills the air, vibrating through Steve as if the floor shakes under him. It takes a few moments for him to realize what the sound is.

A moan, like a dog with its tail caught in a fence, the wounded cry of pain and misery that is universal to all creatures.

He finds you sitting in the far corner of the room, half-hidden by what used to be the MRI. You hug your legs to your chest and bury your face in your knees. It's one thing to listen to the briefing, to hear about the destruction you're capable of causing. On paper, you're a menace, a monstrosity. In person, you're… scared.

Steve relaxes from his defensive stance and lays the tranq gun on the ground. It doesn't feel right, shooting you when you're like this. He steps forward, finding the blank spaces between the debris like a game of hopscotch. He tries to be quiet so he doesn't startle you, but he still makes noise. Not much—just enough so you'll know someone's there. The moan that underscored everything else in the room stops. When he's ten feet away, he halts, lowering to a crouch.

"Hey," he says. He keeps his voice soft and level, the same tone he uses when dealing with panicked refugees. It's soothing, more like Steve Rogers than Captain America.

You shift and raise your head, eyes peeking over your knees.

  


	2. Chapter 2

The medical team… they never came back for you. They left you in the rubble of your own making, with the walls cracked and leaning, threatening to fall in on you. Your life has returned to the endless thread of panic.

Then someone comes in.

Footsteps creep across the floor, almost silent. You squeeze your eyes more tightly shut and wait for the prick of a needle. You have no doubt that whoever has come to collect you will pump you full of drugs and lock you somewhere, bound and gagged, where you can't hurt anyone else. At this point, that seems like a mercy.

"Hey." The voice brushes over your skin like a caress. It's soft, like someone trying to soothe a stray cat.

You look up. The light in the room is dim, but he is unmistakable. You would recognize him even without the uniform, hell, even if he weren't carrying that shield.

He crouches so his gaze is level with yours. "I'm Steve."

It's funny, the way he says it—as if you don't already know who he is, like he isn't Captain Freaking America. He waits for you to respond, to give your own name, but, of course, you can't. Not without bringing the whole room down. Killing Captain America: that would be the ultimate cherry on top of the shit sundae that your life has become. So you watch him, letting his presence ground you. You ignore the destruction that you've caused and focus on the way he looks at you completely without fear.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says. You believe him. He can, if he wants, but he would have done it already. "Can I come closer?" He takes a half step forward, his eyes locked with yours, as if waiting for any sign of dissent. When you don't protest, he continues, still crouched with his shield guarding in front of him. He stops just out of reach, close enough that you can make out every detail of his face. The concern there is real.

"Are you hurt?" he asks.

Hurt? Good question. _Are_ you hurt? You've been in pain for so long that you wouldn't know even if you were. How would you separate the aches of old injuries from new?

He's closer—somehow moving without you noticing—so that he's almost at your side. He smells like soap and detergent. Clean, but not the burning, sterile smell of a hospital. It's a soft sort of clean, like sheets out of the dryer. Something you can wrap around yourself. He surveys the room, taking stock of the situation. Without his eyes to focus on, your panic reemerges, fraying the edges of your already overwrought emotions. You grab at the material that covers his arm, needing to feel something solid. He notices, his eyes snapping back to yours, but he doesn't stop you. "It's going to be okay."

Your therapist at the hospital had taught you to tell yourself those words, said they would soothe you. They had never worked, but coming from Captain America, they put you at ease. It _is_ going to be okay. Because he says so.

"I want you to come with me." He straightens to his full height, towering over you. You're struck by just how _big_ he is. "It isn't safe in here."

He's right, of course. It isn't safe in here. But where could he take you that would be safe from you?

He must see the reluctance in your face because his eyebrows knit together. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

You stand, leaving your hand on the ground to steady yourself. Your muscles protest after huddling in the same position for so long. Captain America watches you, hands held out to catch you as you waver. You manage without him and a spark of pride lights under your heart. You're black and blue and sore all over, but at least you can walk unassisted.

He leads you through the room, watching your every step as you follow him. He offers you his hand a few times, when you need to step over a larger bit of debris, but you don't take it. You can't pin your finger on why it matters so much to you, but you don't want to seem weak in front of him.

 

+++

 

Steve tries to stay friendly and light, imagining that he's talking with Wanda. His relationship with her was always warm, like an older brother. But you are not Wanda. Wanda is like fire-tempered steel, but you… you're soft. With you, Steve can't shut off the urge to stand between you and whatever hurts you. He wants to hold you next to him and make sure nothing ever touches you again. Every word he says matters, like any slip will send you spiraling off some unseen ledge, like if he touches you wrong, you'll disintegrate.

You make tortuous, frustrating, agonizing progress across the room, limping as you go, as if you're wrapped in a blanket of pain. Steve winces with each step you take. You're covered in bandages, but the skin that he can see is one massive bruise. Tony had mentioned that you had been trapped under the rubble. He hadn't said how extensive that damage had been to your body. Steve wants to pick you up and carry you out to safety, but how would you react to that? For all he knows, you might fall apart right in his arms if he touches you. So he lets you make your own progress, offering you help when he thinks you need it, though you never accept.

When you reach the door, he motions for you to wait for him and you sink against the wall. The tension from the hall bleeds through the door with the frantic whispers of the med staff. He wasn't supposed to take this long. Steve eases the door open and relief floods the faces in the hall.

"We're coming out now," Steve says, switching to an authoritative tone. He doesn't want them to spook you more than they already have. "You can fall back. I've got her from here."

Steve knows that he should take you back to your room, the one that was originally meant to hold the Hulk, but he can't stomach that idea at the moment. Something about returning you to the big glass room feels too much like putting a lab rat in a cage.

 

+++

 

"Are you hungry?"

The question catches you off guard. You had expected a short, silent trip back to your cell. But Captain America looks at you as if his too blue eyes see straight through you.

You shake your head, though the slight movement hurts your neck. You haven't been hungry for a while. The med team brings you meals and you eat because you know that you should.

"How about coffee?"

It's the persistent concern behind the question that catches your attention. He's trying to take care of you, even if it's in the smallest way possible.

You are suddenly conscious of what he must see when he looks at you, all broken bones and bruises. You look like you've been through hell… and you have. The way he looks at you, with sympathy bleeding out of his eyes, is not something that you enjoy. You take care of other people; they don't take care of you. It's what being a nurse is all about. Coffee, though… that sounds like seven types of heaven. You nod.

He takes you to a new floor, one that opens into an expansive kitchen and living area. Glass walls show a yard outside. For the first time since your arrival, you're in the part of the compound that's above ground. You hadn't realized that you missed the sun.

You limp to the window and press your hands against the glass. Captain America doesn't stop you; he just lets you walk those ten feet away from him by yourself. You stare out the window until your eyes hurt, memorizing every detail of the line of trees at the edge of the clearing. The swaying of the green branches mesmerizes you until you lose track of where you are. The smell of coffee pulls you back.

He holds a mug out to you. You take it from him and allow him to lead you back to a set of barstools around the kitchen island. A pad of paper and a pencil wait on the counter. You set your mug next to them and pick up the pencil experimentally. You can't write with your dominant hand right now—it's still injured—but the promise of communication is too tempting.

 _Thank you._ You take your time forming the letters, trying to keep the lines as even as you can.

He smiles. "So, what do I call you?"

You write your name in clear capital letters. The pencil hurts against the bruises on your fingers, but you ignore it. This is the most social contact you've had in weeks that didn't involve checking your vitals or taking a blood sample.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you."

You don't know whether he's referring to the hospital collapse or your subsequent imprisonment by Stark, but the compassion is genuine either way. You nod and look at your coffee.

"We're trying to help you. I promise. We're doing everything we can."

 _What happened?_ You've heard everything from a gas explosion to a terrorist attack. If anyone can tell you for real, it would be the Avengers.

"We don't know. Do you remember anything? Something unusual?"

Other than the hospital exploding? No, not really. There was that funny feeling you got about that guy you saw just before… you dismiss the thought. He was probably dead in the collapse like everyone else, no use dragging his memory through the mud. You shake your head.

"Dr. Cho says you survived a lot of radiation." Your eyebrows tug together. You hadn't heard that. He presses forward. "Have they talked to you about it?"

 _Didn't tell me._ You bite your lip. Radiation poisoning is no joke, but you can't say you've noticed any of those symptoms. _Am I going to die?_

"No." The sudden force behind his voice catches you off guard. There's a sharpness in his eyes, something just this side of scary.

 _Can they fix me?_ Hope creeps into the space around your heart.

His face falls. "We're going to try."

So… no. You recognize him sidestepping the real answer to your question, the same way the doctors sugarcoat when they think a case is terminal.

 _What if you can't?_ Would you ever be able to go back to your life? Would you even be allowed to leave?

He studies the question, looking everywhere but at you. "I don't know."

You wrap your hand around the mug in front of you, savoring the warmth that flows into your palm, and look into your coffee like it will give you answers. You led your life all by yourself up to this point. You always had a grand plan, from kindergarten to nursing school. Now you don't know what will happen in the next five minutes.

Steve's hand settles over your wrist. You look up to see that he's moved closer to your side. "It's going to be okay. I promise."

 

+++

 

Steve can't locate Tony until the next day, which means Tony is avoiding him. When he does finally track him down, he finds him in his lab, buried in a mess of electronics.

"How was your coffee date?" Tony asks without looking up from the chaos spread across the table in front of him.

"You're spying on us now?"

"'Now'?" Tony raises an eyebrow but doesn't look up from his task. "Like I wasn't monitoring her from the beginning?"

Steve had adjusted to the ever-present surveillance on the compound, believed Tony's insistence that the cameras were for security purposes only. He had also trusted Tony when he said he didn't review the tapes unless something happened. That Tony had lied sparks a thunderstorm between Steve's ears. He pulls Tony from his chair by the front of his shirt and shoves him against the wall. "Son of a bitch."

"Language." Tony shrugs him off. "It's not like I have cameras in your shower."

"Did you know how she was being treated?" Steve had balked at Tony's choices in the past, but hadn't considered him capable of actual cruelty.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. It's not like she's a prisoner."

"Then why can't she leave her room?"

"I'm keeping her from hurting people. You're the one that's letting her wander around the compound." Tony gestures to Steve with the screwdriver still held in his hand. "You have no idea what she's capable of doing."

The roar in the back of Steve's mind rages but he pushes it aside. Fighting only makes Tony dig in his heels deeper. "She's terrified."

"She's dangerous."

"We're _all_ dangerous."

Tony faces Steve and puts his hand on his hip. "Is this about the Winter Soldier thing again?"

The last of Steve's control over his temper unravels. "No. This is about you thinking you can do whatever you want."

"Because this is starting to feel like a pattern with you." Tony paces the edge of the room. "When you were a kid, did you bring snakes home as pets too?"

"This isn't a joke." Steve's voice could freeze a furnace.

"You can't ignore a threat just because you feel sorry for her."

"She isn't a threat!"

"Of course she's a threat!"  Tony throws the screwdriver onto the top of his workbench with a clang. "What do you know about her? You met her a _day_ ago. She could have blown up the hospital in the first place."

<Excuse me, sir.> Friday interrupts before Steve can lay into Tony. <You asked that I notify you of any noteworthy change in behavior.>

Tony turns to the large monitor in the room. "What's up?"

<She has accessed the computer in her room for the first time.>

"Oh? What's she looking at?"

Friday pulls up a live feed of a security camera in your room. <YouTube.>

Steve scowls at Tony, but you distract him. You move your hands in front of you, folding and unfolding your fingers. Your motions are hesitant, but unmistakable. He leans closer into the screen to watch. "She's learning sign language."

 

+++

 

Studying was second nature in nursing school. You memorized hundreds, maybe thousands of terms, learned procedures by heart. Signing is coming to you in much the same way. Rudimentary signs are not going to be enough now that your voice is not an option. Where you had picked up bits and pieces of signs before, this time you need them.

You lean toward the computer screen, trying to mimic the motions that the teacher is giving, when a knock booms through the suite. You turn to the sound and see Captain America standing on the other side of the thick glass door. The corner of his mouth quirks. He could have entered—you can't open it from your side—but was polite enough to knock. You unfold yourself from the bed and limp to the door.

[can I come in?] he signs.

Your heart skips a beat. [yes]

He presses the key code that opens the door and steps through. With a sweeping glance, he takes in the space, as if it's second nature to check his surroundings. His face falls at what he sees. The room has not really survived your occupancy. Almost everything inside is smashed or torn.

"What happened?"

[break] you sign. You tap your throat, not knowing how to explain exactly how it had happened.

"We can get it fixed for you."

You shake your head. [break again]

The look in his eyes tugs at your heart. You return to your bed and sit there cross-legged. He looks around for a chair, but finding only broken ones, sits opposite you on the floor.

[you know A-S-L?] Your movements are slower than his, your signs more deliberately formed.

He shrugs. "I used to need it. I wasn't always… you know…" He looks at his hands, his fingers fiddling over each other.

You raise an eyebrow. [handsome?]

He laughs. It's loud and catches you off guard. You've been spending most of your time alone lately, not even able to talk to yourself. You forgot what laughter sounds like. "I don't know about that. Back… before… I couldn't hear very well. Bucky used to—" He cuts off, pain simmering under his expression.

[B-U-C-K-Y] Your fingerspelling takes time, but you're reasonably certain you get it right. [friends]

"Yeah, we were close."

[B-U-C-K-Y know sign?]

"He helped me keep up if someone wasn't talking loud enough. He'd give me hints behind their back."

Talking with him is nice. You're slow and he's patient, waiting while you look up or fingerspell words. He teaches you some new signs and you show him the website you've been using to learn. ASL has changed since he last used it, so it's fun watching him discover the new things. For a minute, you're happy.

That bubble pops the moment his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen and he's in Captain America mode again.

When he looks back at you, you try to smile, but it's like slipping into a dress that's too tight. [goodbye?]

"I'll come back later."

You nod and watch as he leaves you behind. The glass walls of your cell seem thicker in his absence, as if they're creeping in on you. It's still a cell, after all. He can go. You can't.


	3. Chapter 3

_Found Banner._

The text from Natasha sends a bolt of lightning through Steve's heart. Banner left over a year ago and he _knows_ how to hide. With S.H.I.E.L.D.'s network destroyed, the Avengers had lost track of him.

Natasha hadn't "found" him so much as she had heard whispers. With her skills, that was enough. Three days, two dead ends, and four safe houses later, Steve stands in a meager apartment, more functional than comfortable, with a bare mattress, duffle bag, and nothing else. He thinks of the room Banner had occupied at the Avengers' Tower, abandoned now, but filled with the things he loved.

Intellectually, Steve knows why Banner felt he needed to exile himself. Emotionally… things are more complicated. Steve doesn't want to feel the sting of betrayal—Banner had his reasons. The damage in Johannesburg, the body count that came with it, Banner had to deal with that in his own way. To do something so terrible, to have so much power, but have it entirely out of control… His mind flashes to Bucky and then… to you. But, Banner went AWOL, abandoned his friends and took off on his own. The soldier in Steve takes that personally.

Banner doesn't seem shocked to see Steve when he arrives. He startles a little, but then looks resigned. "Figured you would show up sooner or later."

"You didn't make it easy," Steve says.

"I didn't want to be found."

They keep their distance, uneasy glances taking up the space that camaraderie had once filled. Steve was never good with awkward silence. "Something came up."

Banner gives a half-smile. "Something always comes up."

He hasn't come completely into the apartment, but he hasn't moved to leave either. Steve takes this as a good sign. "It's important."

"It's always important." Banner fiddles with a notebook on a desk by the door. "And never worth the risk. The world knows about the Hulk now, the _real_ one. That's not something I can come back from."

"You saved lives in Sokovia. You're a hero."

"Tell that to the dead in Johannesburg." Banner's voice is sharp. "I never should have gotten involved in this. In _any_ of it."

"I'm not asking for the Hulk."

"That's what Fury said too. I don't care about whatever mission you're after, Steve. I can't care anymore."

"What about someone who survived a lethal dose of gamma radiation? Can you care about that?"

Banner stills. Car horns blare on the road outside as the bustle of human life continues. Inside, the refrigerator whirs to life. Banner's teeth tug at his bottom lip. "How much radiation?"

Steve crosses the few strides between them. "We have all the paperwork back at the compound. Bloodwork, scans… You've never had any comparison data before. She could be the key that you're looking for." Steve studies his face, watches as a myriad of emotions go to war over his features.

Banner shifts his weight from side to side and runs his hand through his hair, mussing the already untidy locks. "Does she…? Is she…?"

"Not like you, no." Steve answers the question that Banner can't voice. "She has powers, but they're different. She can't control them. She needs your help."

Banner's face scrunches. "If I do this"—at Steve's look of hope, he cuts off—" _if_ I do this, the other guy isn't getting involved. At all."

"Of course."

"Ever."

Steve holds out his hand. "Nice to have you back on the team."

 

+++

 

It's been a while since Captain Rogers first visited you, something like a week. Days are losing meaning. Is it possible that he forgot about you?

He had said that he would be back. You aren't misremembering that, right? You said goodbye and he said he'd be back.

You keep busy: cleaning up the mess that you've made of the suite, reading, practicing signing. But after a while, you grow sick of your own company. You pace the room so many times that the walls run together.

What if something happened to him? He's a superhero, for Christ's sake! He could have gotten blown out of an airplane or something. Your irritation at his absence turns to concern about what is really keeping him away and then back to anger that no one would even think to tell you if he died. 

The door opens. You turn, expecting to see one of the med staff, but instead, Captain Rogers stands at the entrance, his half-smile making your stomach flip. That feeling falters when you see the man next to him. He's big, but hunches as if to make himself appear smaller, like he's apologizing for his presence.

Captain America claps him on the shoulder. "This is Doctor Banner."

Ah. Another doctor, another round of experiments. Dr. Banner offers a wave. You hold out your hand, but the smile you try to give is forced. He takes the offered handshake wrapping his rough, warm fingers around yours. 

"Captain Rogers told me that you know sign language." His voice is even more tentative than his appearance.

[I know a little ASL] You have improved in the past week, so the movements are more fluid now.

"I'm new to it, so go slow with me." He doesn't look at you, not quite. His gaze fixes slightly to your left. He pulls a file from under his arm—your file—and opens it. As soon as he's talking about the medical information, his demeanor changes. He's focused and precise, no longer stumbling over his words. It's the first time that anyone has explained the nature of what happened to you. It leaves you with more questions than answers.

"I want to try something new," Dr. Banner says when he reaches the end of the file. "We have extensive data on your biology, but next to nothing about your powers themselves."

[what you want from me?]

Dr. Banner smiles. It's a shy expression, like sunlight breaking through clouds, and it makes you want to like him just a little more. "I want to test the strength of your powers. Create a baseline, something like that."

You balk at the suggestion… hadn't they seen the damage you can do? Captain Rogers steps forward. "It's okay. Tony built something specifically for this." When you still look skeptical, he smiles. "Do you want to see it at least?"

 

+++

 

The room is huge and blank, devoid of any debris that could crush you. But that doesn't mean it can't be broken.

You look from Dr. Banner, who is watching his feet, to Captain Rogers, who wears a half-smile. He motions to the door. "We'll be right through here the whole time."

You are not reassured.

They close the door with an ominous click and leave you staring at the blank walls, lined with thick black material, as if they are soundproofed. The idea that Stark thought soundproofing would protect from the sort of damage you can do almost makes you smile.

<Let's start small.> Banner's voice crackles through an intercom. <Just your normal speaking voice.>

You pick at your nails, glancing to the door through which they disappeared.

"Hello?" The shriek returns and you cringe as it echoes back to you. But the walls don't shake.

<That was good.> Captain Roger's voice comes through the speaker this time. <You're doing great.>

Banner's voice follows. <Try a little louder.>

You shout this time. Since the accident, you've barely used your voice and it feels rough against your throat. The room is unmoved by your assault, though you can still feel the power behind it. Perhaps you really can be in here without worrying.

 

+++

 

Steve and Banner watch the readout in silence. The graph that shows the physical force produced by your voice is, frankly, alarming. If they had done this anywhere else you would have reduced it to rubble.

Tony created the specially reinforced room for exactly this purpose. Pressure pads in the walls measure the force you create against them. It can take punishment, but you shouldn't be able to destroy anything.

"Can you try full power this time?" Banner asks into the intercom.

From the CCTV monitor, Steve watches you cast an unsure look around the room, looking once again to the closed door. Your fear cuts through him like a stab in the gut. He wants more than anything to take you out of there, lead you somewhere where none of this matters. But if there is a chance that you can control this, they need more information.

Steve presses the intercom button. "It'll be alright. The room can handle it." He ignores Banner's quizzical glance.

A determined look overtakes your face as you plant your feet and squarely face the far wall. Your chest expands as with a large breath. The read-out jumps as you scream, the needle hitting the top of the scale.

Banner curses.

Steve's eyes jump to him. "What's wrong?"

"We may have—uh—underestimated how much power she has," Bruce says. "The room wasn't built for _this_."

Steve looks back to the monitor as a crack rocks the room. You cut off, wincing back in horror. He curses and rushes for the door.

You've crumpled into a ball where you had stood, staring wide-eyed at the crack in the wall. You don't acknowledge Steve's approach. He checks the surroundings as he goes, scanning for threats. The supports in the room are still in place—you haven't done any structural damage.

He crouches at your side. "It's okay." You don't respond, so he tentatively touches your shoulder. "You didn't hurt anything." When you don't stop him, he strokes your hair. He mutters nonsense as he draws you closer to him, more focused on keeping you calm than on how this must appear. You're too still, too quiet. By the time Banner comes in, Steve's practically pulled you onto his lap.

"We got one hell of a reading," Banner says, "but Tony will need to make repairs before we can continue."

Continuing is the furthest thing from Steve's mind. He stands, picking you up as he rises. You don't respond even as he carries you out of the room. You shake, still looking ahead with blank eyes.

 

+++

 

You've moved locations. You aren't in the lab anymore, but you don't know where Steve has taken you.

You'll call him Steve now. Captain America, Captain Rogers… they feel too formal. Especially when he's kneeling less than a foot in front of you wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

[where?]

"My suite."

You forget to breathe for a second, but curse yourself at the slip. Steve Rogers is definitely not seducing you. At least… not intentionally. Unfortunately, there isn't really anywhere that you can look at him without feeling your stomach flip over. Eye contact makes your head swim, but looking at his lips has an effect that is just as distracting.

You decide to watch your hands instead. [I break room?]

"Nothing that can't be fixed."

[sorry]

His smile makes your heart stutter, but the expression doesn't quite wipe the concern from his eyes. You want to chase that emotion from his face, but even if you did know the signs to tell him it will all be okay, it wouldn't really be true. Coming up against the wall of frustration, you try to comfort him in a different way. You touch his cheek and the worry is replaced with surprise. For a long second, you stay that way, with the warmth of his skin seeping into your fingertips.

He clears his throat and sits back on his heels, leaving your hand hanging in space. "Do you like Scrabble?"

 

+++

 

You _hate_ Scrabble. You didn't before, but after weeks of playing against Steve, you want to throw each and every one of those little wooden letters in his infuriatingly friendly face.

J-E-R-K you place on the board. You miss all the spaces that would have made it worthwhile, so it's a measly fifteen points, but putting it down gives you some satisfaction. If only his biceps didn't stretch the fabric of his shirt every time he placed his pieces on the board, maybe you could concentrate.

"You're a sore loser," he says as he marks down your points.

You want to tell him that he's an insufferable winner, but you settle for sticking your tongue out at him. You'll look up some ASL curse words later.

Life has brightened significantly for you over the past few weeks. At first, you were only allowed to move around the compound when Bruce or Steve accompanied you, then even those restrictions were lifted. Moving around alone was hard, since most of the tower operated on voice commands, until Tony gave F.R.I.D.A.Y. an ASL extension. It almost made you consider trusting him. Almost.

But not everything went smoothly. You destroyed the table at breakfast one morning with an unexpected sneeze and Sam made a habit of sneaking up on you without meaning to. Progress went in fits and starts as everyone adjusted to your presence and you adjusted to… well… _everyone_. It's strange being in the same building with so much power.   Steve, Natasha, Tony, Bruce, Clint, Sam, Wanda, Vision—it would be a lot to take in, even if they couldn't each individually put down an army.

You spend a lot of time with Bruce in the lab, but now you take an active role. He shows you the data and asks for your opinions. More importantly, he never pushes you too far. He always checks that you're comfortable with every step that you take. No enclosed spaces, no pushing the limits of your powers. Steve sticks around when he can to translate your ASL, but as Bruce's signing improves (and yours does as well) conversations become seamless. You're settling into a pattern, almost like you belong there.

But, of course, you don't.

They're superheroes, actual real-life legends. They fight aliens and stop human trafficking rings and save the goddamn world. And you're a nurse who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can't leave the tower whenever you want. You can't go back to your old life. And you can't help the people that you've come to care about. Even if Steve is nice to you, how long can that last before he returns to his real life?

 

+++

 

When you go to the common area for lunch, there is a new face that you don't recognize. But Steve does.

"Sharon." He steps forward with a broad smile to greet her and you suppress the panic that builds in your chest when she lays her hand on his arm.  She's blonde and tall and fashionable. And she's wearing a sidearm. She seems like the kind of woman who could take down a dictator and then walk right on to the runway at Fashion Week. Probably more of Steve's type. They look amazing together, the perfect All-American couple.

Steve. Captain Rogers. Captain America. Not just your Netflix binging buddy or your scrabble partner. Not 'your' anything. He doesn't belong to you at all. You had forgotten that.

You step into the fringes of the room, not wanting to interrupt the Avengers as they catch up with this old friend. Besides, watching them hurts.

You eat lunch by yourself after everyone follows Sharon to the conference room. It's good. Missions are good. The Avengers going out and saving people is good. You just wish it didn't leave an empty feeling under your lungs. Everyone has a purpose here but you.

You made plans with Steve to finish watching The Wizard of Oz—you were interrupted by an accident in Stark's lab before the opening credits finished last time—but he probably won't have time for that, even if he does remember. You curl onto the couch of the game room and turn on a trash reality TV show that you know Steve hates. You're being jealous and petty and you know it. You hate yourself for getting so invested with Steve, for thinking of your relationship as special. He was helping you. You're the one that got attached.

The couch sinks and you look up from the TV to see Sam smiling at you. He offers a Wii controller.

Sam was one of the first Avengers outside of Steve to befriend you. You didn't play many video games before. But you have a lot more time now than you ever did. Then Sam introduced you to the Wii and you discovered that you are _abysmal_ at Mario Kart. Sam enjoys watching you try. Well… Sam enjoys watching you screw up.

You take the controller. Letting Sam kick your ass at video games for a few hours will take your mind off the ache that has settled around your heart.

 

+++

 

At some point while Steve was busy with Sharon, you had slipped away from him. It's not like you to hide from him, but now you're nowhere to be found. Usually, you meet him in the lab or your room, waiting to greet him with a broad smile. You're the first person that made him feel like you actually wanted him there. Him: Steve Rogers, not Captain America.

He's supposed to watch the Wizard of Oz with you, something he's looked forward to doing. You've never watched it—how is that possible?—and Steve _loves_ that movie. He insisted on being present when you saw it. You started it once. Steve had been debating maybe, _possibly_ , putting his arm across the back of the couch behind you, but Tony had created some ridiculous killer robot that had trashed the lab and Steve had to leave before he worked up the nerve.

Laughter in the game room draws him there. He doesn't think twice about opening the door… until he sees you and Sam there. He sits behind you, his hands over yours on the video game controller. Your smile is bright enough to cast a shadow. You're happy, tucked into Sam's arms, and Steve's heart plummets into his feet.

He steps back, retreating through the door before you notice him. He shouldn't be watching this. You and Sam are too close, too familiar. He's reminded forcefully of all the double dates he had to endure with Bucky, watching as his friend swept both his and Steve's dates off their feet. Steve hadn't made much of an impression. He had thought that he was done with that feeling, that the wrenching pain in his heart wouldn't come back. He shouldn't be mad, he tells himself. Sam's a good guy; he deserves to be happy. And you do too. If you make each other happy, why should he stand in the way of that?

He goes back to the briefing room. There isn't much for him to do, but maybe he can look through the intel again. Twenty minutes later and he may as well have never started. He can't concentrate on the file in front of him, so he tosses it away.

"Problems?" Sam stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

"It's fine." Steve can't stop the rise in his voice. He's not mad at Sam, not really. But he's frustrated and that doesn't have anywhere to go.

Sam studies him for a moment, then comes into the room to sit in the chair opposite Steve. "You gonna tell me to stay away from your girl?" he asks. Something inside Steve flares in response to the subtle challenge in his voice. They look at each other for a moment before Sam continues. "Of course, that would mean she'd have to be your girl first."

Steve looks away. "Not my business."

"Bullshit." Sam glowers at him. "Me and her, we're just friends. Meanwhile, _you're_ doodling sketches of her on the briefing notes." He shakes his head. "She must be the only person in this building that doesn't know you've got the hots for her." Steve busies himself with recollecting the scattered contents of the file, but Sam continues, "It's been, what, a hundred years since you asked a girl on a date? What do you want me to do, man, pass her a note for you in class?"

"You think this is easy for me?"

"No. I think it's really, really hard. I thought you'd go out on a limb on your own _eventually_ , but apparently, you need someone to toss you out the window. Jesus, Steve, she likes you. Just ask her to the sock hop or whatever. She'll say yes."

"That's not the problem."

"Unless she's a Hydra agent, I'm not seeing the problem."

Steve searches the room around him for a way out of the conversation, but comes up empty. "I was never good with women," Steve says. It's a stupid admission, something of a sore spot for the past… ever.

"No shit." Sam chuckles. "You're still bad with women."

Steve glares at him. "All the women that came on to me after the serum… before that they wouldn't have given me the time of day. It's just really…"

"Shallow?" Sam finishes for him.

"I wasn't anything until I was Captain America. Now, I don't think I'm anything else. What if that's the only thing she likes about me?"

"Dude, you are allowed to have a life," Sam says. "Not everything has to be missions and recon. Go to dinner, watch a movie, get laid." Steve cringes, but Sam continues. "She's a good person. You paid attention to her and she noticed. That's how these things usually work."

"It's more complicated than that."

"Yeah, well, you planning on turning back into Skinny Steve any time soon? I don't think so. So, it doesn't matter."

Steve rubs the spot between his eyes. "Why do you care all of a sudden?"

"I lost the betting pool a week ago and I am not letting Tony win." Sam shrugs.

"There's a pool?"

"I told you she was the only one who didn't know."

 

+++

Steve is late. Wheels were supposed to be up five minutes ago. Last minute missions... Intelligence always comes at the worst possible time. At least he'll have a few days to think through what he's going to do about you, come up with a plan. Steve likes plans.

He jogs through the corridor to the hangar, mentally ticking off his checklist of supplies. In his haste, he almost runs you over as you come out of the medical lab.

Your sudden appearance makes him lose all train of thought. He wasn't supposed to see you so soon. Not after talking with Sam. He had thought he'd have time to prepare. You're dazzling, in your lazy, everyday way. It's the kind of beauty that is more functional than fashionable, like it's not something you think about even though it makes it hard for him to breathe.

He's staring and the longer he waits, the more puzzled you look, until it's too late for him not to talk to you.

Your hands are tentative as you sign. [going?]

He throws off the cobwebs that had brought his brain to a halt. "Yeah. In a hurry."

[you be safe]

It's the first time that anyone has actually told him that. Usually he is the one to warn others to watch their backs, but no one worries about him. Except you. Even if you know he could take care of himself… you care if he comes back. Not so he can go on the next mission and save the world. You want him safe because you want to see him again. The wall of doubt that he'd built collapses with that knowledge.

Steve's not a forward guy. He's never made the first move in his life because he could never be sure it would work. You're different. There are a lot of things to tell you, and he _really_ wants to tell you, but he's late and the last time he left, it dragged into the next week. He can't wait a week.

So he kisses you. It's hot and breathless and he wants it to go on forever, but he is eight minutes late… He pulls away.

His brain struggles to find purchase. You're so close and so beautiful and, _god_ , he wants to stay with you all day and every day after that. "I'll be back soon, okay?" His thumb strokes your cheek where he still holds your face in his hand.

You nod, looking bewildered, and he leaves because he can't take the chance that you'll tell him it was a mistake.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Steve has gone on dozens of missions since you've met him. Dozens. You've always gotten along fine in his absence. But he's never kissed you right before he left and that makes concentrating over the next week almost impossible.

It's not like the kiss was earth-shattering. Really, if you're honest with yourself, it was more awkward than anything—kind of rushed and desperate. You hadn't even had time to respond because you were too surprised that it had happened at all.

It really _had_ happened, right? You're not imagining it? Because there had been zero build up to that point. He barely _touched_ you unless you were a panicked mess. Sure, you had talked plenty, late night chats over games and coffee when you had a nightmare or he came back from missions too jazzed to sleep. Had he ever hinted at wanting it to be more?

You're mindlessly organizing first aid supplies, trying to decide whether Steve really is clueless about what 'Netflix and chill' means, when Banner calls you back from your distraction. His voice registers, but not his words.

You shake yourself and emerge from the daze you’ve floated in ever since Steve left. [what?]

No one is as good at looking worried as Bruce. His whole face gets involved, scrunching up as if that will help him discern what’s wrong. "Are you feeling okay?"

'Okay'? No, you do not feel okay. You're second-guessing every conversation you've ever had with Steve, reliving every lingering touch. You had to take a cold shower this morning because you remembered the way the sweat made his shirt cling to his chest when you saw him after he finished training. You don't gossip, but you are at a loss. Next to Steve, Bruce is the person you are closest to at the compound. He’s kind and thoughtful and, most importantly, discrete. Maybe he has some insight.

[S-T-E-V-E kiss me]

Bruce laughs. He fucking _laughs_. For a second, you want to throw a book at him.  So much for kind and thoughtful.

[you know?]

"I figured it was a matter of time." He shrugs. "Good for him. How was it?"

Clumsy, but you're not about to tell Bruce that. You scowl at him. [why you know?]

His smile is sheepish. "I think everyone knew that he liked you. Actually, when did you kiss? If it was recently, Nat won the pool."

You actually do throw a book at him this time. [you not tell me]

"It wasn't my secret to tell."

The blaring of an alarm interrupts you—emergency call to the medical bay. You give Bruce a panicked look and you both rush out of the room.

The medical team is fully equipped, but sometimes they just need more hands. You pitch in where you can. Dr. Cho is talking as you enter, her voice even and precise. The Avengers are on their way back—multiple injuries, some of them serious—GSWs, burns, cuts—the kinds of wounds that leave scars, even on superheroes. It's an all hands on deck situation.

She doesn't give details on who is hurt. The thought that Steve might be the one coming in with a gunshot wound makes your heart stutter. He is not allowed to die, not without giving you a satisfactory follow-up to that kiss.

You're helping prep the medical area when the first of the injuries come in. Sharon is as composed as someone with a bullet in her leg can hope to be. Her blond hair is dyed with red, her face contorted in pain. The medics apply pressure to her thigh, which soaks blood through her uniform. You follow the doctor that goes with her.

Medicine is one of those blessed things that requires all of your attention. You keep up with the doctor's movements, anticipating what they want before they ask. You know when to apply pressure, when to adjust the light, when to get the hell out of the way. And it's clear that it's going to work—Sharon is going to be okay.

By the time you get out of her room, though, you're drooping on your feet. The rest of the med staff have disappeared to deal with other injuries. You're left a little lost. At the hospital, there was always more work, someone new to help.

Oh, god— _Steve_. Your work kept you occupied, but now, with a second to think… you still don't know what happened to him. You look through the other rooms. Clint, Rhodey, Sam—nothing that won't be fixed—but no Steve. Once you've made the round of the medical bay, your heart slows a little. If he were seriously injured, he would still be here. Unless… you push that thought down before it forms. You leave the medical suite and nearly trip over him as you exit.

He sits on the floor, leaning against the wall behind him. Dirt and grime and— _Jesus_ —blood cover his uniform. He looks like he's been in a fight, but nothing that he won't bounce back from. He scrambles to his feet, wincing as he does so. You breathe your first full, complete, unrestricted breath since the last time that you saw him. Steve's here. He's home.

He turns his shield in his hands. "Are they going to be okay?"

You smile. Of course his first thought is for the others. That's probably why he's still waiting out here. [yes] He looks relieved. [you hurt?] you ask.

"Not really." His gaze slides away from yours.

You narrow your eyes, reaching to his ribs. He flinches from the contact. [you hurt]

You wave him into the medical suite and, though he resists at first, with enough insistence he goes in like a lamb. The doctors are busy, but you can at least get some of the preliminary aid done. He probably has some broken ribs, or at least bruised ones. You gather supplies and Steve stands in the middle of the room like a gopher who's come into the sun too early. By the time you're ready, he still hasn't moved. You pat the medical table, urging him to get on. Even when he's seated, he stares at you blankly.

He can't honestly expect you to treat him this way. This really should be obvious. [shirt] you sign. He turns red.

Oh.

_Oh…_

Steve doesn't want to strip in front of you. You almost lose your composure and crack a smile, but—oh god—he's so embarrassed as it is, you couldn't do that to him. 

You hold up your hands in defeat. [doctor see you]

The corner of his mouth lifts and his eyes cast down. "Thanks. Sorry."

You want to tell him not to be sorry, but that wouldn't really express your point. All the things you'd rather say are walled up behind signs you don't know, even if you could sort through your thoughts enough to express them. You place your hands in his and step between his legs so you're close enough to touch your nose to his. He doesn't move, like he's afraid he'll scare you off. His gaze flickers over your face, watching every movement. For once, you don't look away because you don't have to be afraid of falling into his eyes. His hands are warm and rough around yours. Your heart bangs so hard against your chest that you swear he must be able to hear it.

The kiss is slow and soft this time, almost leisurely as he lets you take the lead. He smells like gunpowder and sweat and in the weirdest way that works for you. You run your fingers up his arms to rest on his neck and his palms go to your hips. The touch is so light you're hardly sure that they're there. You step closer to him until your whole body presses against his and take a deep breath, trying to memorize everything about this moment. The kiss gets deeper. His arms wrap around your waist to pull you tight against him and he sighs into your mouth. You smile against his lips, content to stay right where you are. You don't want to move an inch from him.

"Eh-hem."

Steve pushes you back as if you'd shocked him. Stark watches from the doorway.

"You could have waited six more hours," he says. "I would have won the pool." He focuses on Steve. "Debriefing in five." He waves, but saves a last smirk for you. "As you were soldier." You glower at him as he goes. Steve's face is dark when you turn to look at him.

Ugh. The happy bubble created by the kiss dissipated with Tony's interruption. Now really isn't the time to continue this, not when Steve has Avengers' business to attend to. You take another step back. [happy you here]

"Do you want to go to dinner?" he asks. The words come out in a rush, like he's afraid that he'll lose the nerve if he doesn't say them all at once. "Maybe not tonight. But… tomorrow?"

You'd be delighted.

 

+++

 

You wait in the living room of Steve's suite, picking at the hem of the dress that Wanda lent you. It's more leather than you would have worn normally, but at least it fits, which is better than you can say for anything in Natasha's closet. That's the thing about superheroes: they don't have a spare inch _anywhere_. You've spent the last ten years with a horrible diet and worse exercise habits. You jiggle in all kinds of places that you don't want showing in a spandex leotard. You could have worn what Tony bought you, except it was a size too small and three inches too short. No thanks.

The fact that Stark had to approve your date with Steve grates on your nerves more than you can say, but you don't want Ironman crashing the restaurant in the middle of dessert, so you played along with the "permission to leave the compound" bullshit. At least you hadn't had to do that actual asking; you left that to Steve. Tony made him pay for it, for sure. The entire next day was nothing but snide comments and jokes.

Steve is getting ready. Training must have gone long, because he still had to shower after he let you in. Waiting sucks, but you got to see Steve in sweatpants, so you'll count it as a win. Your eyes wander the room, over memorabilia that belongs in the Smithsonian, not in your date's apartment.

A notebook rests on the coffee table, half-fallen off the edge. You've seen it before, Steve's constant companion around the compound. You sit on the couch, curiosity getting the better of you. The shower still runs in the background, so you have a few minutes. Just a peek.

The first page is a detailed sketch of the Brooklyn skyline, but… not the current one. The buildings are old, the cars way out of fashion. You flip the page—the living room in the compound with Vision and Wanda playing chess. Another page—a WWII tank. Another page—Natasha, her face poised in her ordinary inscrutable expression. You keep turning pages, captivated by the drawings. It's a mix of times and subjects, skylines and battlefields and friends, old and new.

Then you see the picture of yourself.

Your face is battered and bruised and your eyes hold a far-away look, as if you're flinching from some unseen threat. It's you, right after you arrived at the compound, maybe right after you met Steve. You turn the page rather than relive the painful memory.

Another picture of you, this time curled into the corner of the couch. You hold your knees to your chest, like you're trying to take up as little room as possible. You turn the page.

You're smiling in the next drawing. It's soft, as if it hurts to do so—which at the time it might have. Smudged bruises still shade your face, but the smile is there, the first ray of sunshine.

The next drawing includes you and Bruce. You're in the lab, leaning over a set of files. Your bruises have healed. You're tucking your hair behind your ear, biting your bottom lip. You flip the page.

You're smiling, not the wane, pained look from the previous drawings, but brilliant like fireworks.

"Ready?"

You jump. Steve's face pales when he sees the sketchbook in your hands. You snap it shut without thinking, feeling like a child caught raiding the cookie jar. He clears this throat. "Let's get going."

Your enthusiasm falters when you realize that Steve plans to drive you to the restaurant on a motorcycle. He puts a helmet on you, taking his time as he fastens the strap under your chin. His fingers linger everywhere that he touches, making your heart pound for reasons that are entirely unrelated to the motorcycle. Then you're behind him, arms wrapped around his waist and every inch of you that touches him is on fire. You try to focus on that rather than the shifting of the bike under you or the fact that your life depends on how good of a driver he is. Every time he makes a turn, you squeeze your arms around him a little tighter. Maybe that's the point. 

 

+++

 

Steve should have known better than to ask Tony where to take you. Money isn't really the problem so much as… well… Steve has no idea what he's doing. He never really did the dating thing before and he wouldn't have been able to afford a restaurant like this back then anyway.

He looks at the wine list, which is written in French, but might as well be in hieroglyphics. Boy, he is in way over his head.

You watch him from the other side of the table, hands folded over the menu. The air boils with the awkwardness between you. You know. You have to know. The back of Steve's neck grows hot. The words on the paper in front of him blur together.

You stand and the scrape of your chair startles him. He looks up, his mind jumping to alert, searching for any sign of danger. The quiet chatter of the restaurant continues uninterrupted. Why—? You take his hand to pull him out of his chair and through the other tables, past the hostess, out the door, and into the bracing cold of the street.

A block away, you turn to him with an indulgent smile and Steve's worries dissipate with the frosty air that lingers each time he breathes. Steve loves everything about your smile. He tried so hard for it when you'd first met, but now it seems to come as naturally as a heartbeat. You're always smiling—at least, when you're around him.

You walk on, looking around corners, pausing occasionally, then taking off across the street in a new direction. His feet follow you of their own volition. He tries to map where you take him, but he can't concentrate on much more than the fingers that you've twined through his as you lead him along the street. You're having fun and, frankly, he is too, though he's not sure where you're going.

The drunken cheers clue him in. You walk a little faster. A sports bar, packed with Mets fans. They spill out of the building, occupying the space outside under heating lamps. It's a good game—one of the playoffs.

As you reach the outskirts of the crowd, you stop and cast a curious look up at him. [okay?]

So very okay. He stoops to kiss you on the cheek, letting his lips linger against your skin longer than he should, then pulls you inside. Steve can breathe again outside the stuffiness of the restaurant. It's packed to the brim, a wildly different scene from the restaurant. You mingle into the crowd, maybe too formally dressed, but still welcome in the crush of fans. Steve takes the lead now, pulling you by your hand to the bar.

He gets beers, you get burgers, and the two of you settle in for the game. It's only the second inning, so there's plenty of time to stay.

You move your chair closer to his. Maybe you're just getting out of someone's way—it is crowded—but, geez, you're close. Do you want him to—? Should he—? Where was intel when he needed it? On a mission, he could count on someone in his ear at all times, telling him which way to go, what he was up against. Right about now, that would be nice.

What would Bucky have done? Nope, not helpful. Bucky would have pulled you onto his lap—Steve can't do that. Okay, what would Tony do? Stupid question. He should _not_ do what Tony would do. Banner…

You lean against his shoulder and his brain stutters to a stop. He feels every inch of you that touches him, from where your knee presses into his thigh to where your temple rests on his arm. Steve casts a glance around the room. No one is watching. No one would care even if they were.

He lifts his arm and pulls you under his shoulder, closer to him. You don't protest. You don't even look at him. You keep watching the game, but the barest hint of a smile touches your lips as you steal a french fry from his plate.

The game goes into extra innings, not that Steve really notices. With his arm over your shoulders, your hands are free to sign and he spends most of the game watching you instead of the TV. Every so often, a cheer tears through the crowd and he looks up, shocked to remember that the two of you aren't alone. But his attention always swivels back to you. He couldn't have said what the score was, but he could probably tell the exact shade of your eyes or draw the curve of your lips as you smile.

The Mets win, which is good, because then the irrepressible smile on Steve's face isn't out of place as he joins the crowd filtering back into the street. As far as first dates go, he can't imagine a better one.

 Which is why he's so reluctant, walking with you back to your suite, to bid you goodnight. What's the point, anyway? It's not as if anyone expects you to go your separate ways. He lives two floors above you. You've stayed up all night watching Netflix before. Why is this different?

Except that it is entirely different. He is different, you are different, the twelve inches between you is different. That space, which was so insurmountable before, is something he can reach across now. He can touch you, hold your hand, pull you into his arms, run his fingers through your hair, kiss you… all the things that had been confined to his imagination before are right at his fingertips.

You open the door and cast a curious look back at him when he remains with his toes on the threshold—a hairsbreadth, a heartbeat, from following you inside. You look him, as if silently feeling out what he's thinking. Then you smile. It's his second favorite smile, the knowing one that tells him you see past the guard that fools everyone else and into his thoughts. It's amused and indulging all in one. 

[watch O-Z?]

It's the perfect invitation: comforting in its familiarity, melding the old friendship with the new intimacy. His resolve falters, flickers, then dissolves. He follows you through the door.

You usually sit on the opposite corner of the couch from him, curled into a ball against the armrest. This time you reclaim your place from the bar, tucked under his shoulder. He pulls you closer because he can.

Watching one movie turns into two, turns into three. You sink further against his side with every title, like you're melting against him. He strokes his fingers through your hair, up and down your arm, across your waist. By the time the credits for Casablanca roll, you lie across his chest, breathing deeply.

He pulls you closer to him and lays his cheek on the top of your head. He likes having you fitted next to him with your hair brushing over his arms. He is surrounded by women who can kill him, most without putting in too much effort, but you're soft. It's nice.

He never thought that he would get to have this sort of domestic happiness. Before the war, no one wanted to be with him. Then there was Peggy. And there was no after the war, just the Avengers. Steve thought there was no way to be anyone but Captain America. Not anymore. But now there's you. And you like him even when he isn't saving the world.

You like that he insists on reading the paper in print instead of on the shiny tablet Tony gave him. You like when he shows you his favorite films, even if they are black and white. You like baseball and swing music and Steve's record collection. You like… him. You might have liked him even if he weren't Captain America, if… if that had been possible.

He wraps his arms around you and lets his head fall forward so that his face is buried in your hair. Your smell is overpowering, still like your shampoo from that morning.

He lets his eyes slip closed—he'll hold you for a minute, just one minute, then he'll go—and savors your scent as it curls around him.

 

+++

 

It's dark when you wake up, but that's not what you notice. You can't move, not an inch. Something pins you down.

Trapped. Oh god, you're trapped

The scream claws out of your throat before you're fully aware.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The shriek jars Steve from his daze and he scrambles away from you. You curl into yourself and tangle your hands in your hair. Your scream shakes the room, knocking pictures from the wall and shattering the TV. Steve's consciousness splinters as the dagger of sound plunges through his temples.

Then it cuts off. When he manages to look up, you cower behind the overturned couch in the far corner of the room. Your hand covers your mouth, your eyes wide with horror.

"It's okay," he says. His voice is a muffled echo through the ringing in his ears, so he can only assume that the words come out correctly. You shake your head. He takes a step toward you and staggers as the floor sways under him, then he tries again. You squeeze your eyes shut, a few tears escaping down your cheeks, as he pulls your shaking form into his arms.

 

+++

 

"So, who wants to explain what happened?" Doctor Cho asks.

"Just an accident," Steve says.

No. It wasn't an accident. You had a goddamn panic attack right there on the couch because Steve had been holding you. That's it. He hadn't even been squeezing you or anything—he was just there—but you couldn't move and any part of your brain that should have come to the right conclusion shut off.

You hug your dress around your waist. It's crumpled and twisted—once fantastic, now a disaster—just like your first date.  Your room is a catastrophe, Steve's ears are bleeding, and Dr. Cho is looking at you with way too much pity. You want to crawl into the filing cabinet, under the med lab table, anything to escape her too knowing eyes. Steve tries to catch your gaze but you can't bear to look at him, not after you hurt him.

You stay through Dr. Cho's examination of Steve's injuries. His eardrums are ruptured and he has a mild concussion, but he's already healing, the super-soldier serum patching him up faster than medical technology could. He'll be fine with rest and, hopefully, no repeat performances from you.

You slip out of the room while Dr. Cho talks. Now that you know Steve is going to be okay you want to get as far from him as is possible while you're still locked in the compound. You want to keep him—keep _everyone_ —safe from you.

You don't even make it down the hall before you hear him jogging after you. He pulls you to a stop, his fingers circling your wrist.

"This wasn't your fault."

You can't think with him in your space. He's too big, too close, too… _Steve_. You had wanted to walk away—you were actually doing it—but that resolve disappeared the second he was in arms reach. You put your hand on his chest to push him back, give yourself some room. Maybe if you don't feel the heat coming off his body, you can get your head on straight again. His hand covers yours, turning your protest into an intimate gesture. He's so _sure_ about himself. About you. It throws you off balance. And it's so tempting to just lean into him, let him hold you together because it's too hard to do it yourself. You're just so _exhausted_ , tired of being this other person, the person with powers. Can't you just… give them back?

He brushes your hair out of your face so that he can look in your eyes. "It's going to be okay. You'll get better at this. Wanda's abilities have—"

You flinch away, putting a few steps of breathing room between you and Steve. [I am not W-A-N-D-A] Wanda volunteered to be a human guinea pig. Steve signed up for the same thing. Banner willingly experimented on himself. Everyone else _chose_ what happened to them one way or another. Not you. [I am not Avenger]

"That's not—" He tries to recapture your hands but you jerk them out of his grasp.

[I want to talk] Not just now. All the time. You want to sing in the shower and curse when you stub your toe and tell Steve how much fun you had on your date before you screwed it all up. You can't do any of that.

"You can learn to control it."

[I break things]

"You need practice."

You don't want practice. You don't want control. You want to get rid of it. [I hurt you]

"You didn't mean to."

[I HURT –]

He kisses you. And… well… that's not where you thought this was going _at all_. Is he seriously this stubborn, that he'll stick with you even after you give him a concussion? He can't keep getting close to you if you're only going to hurt him. You try to pull away. It's not fair to him. He doesn't give you that chance, pressing you against the wall with his hands tangled in your hair.

When you're breathless, he pulls away just far enough to rest his forehead against yours. "I can take a little roughing up. So don't run away because you think you're protecting me." His hand squeezes your shoulder hard enough to hurt. You don't think he realizes that he's doing it. "Promise?" God, it hurts to hear the uncertainty in his voice—like he really is afraid that you'll walk away from him. As if you could.

You nod. He seems to deflate, sinking into you so that his face is nestled in your hair. His arms wrap around your waist and pull you into him, as if he's trying to touch every part of you at once. You relax and let his weight press you into the wall. It should be uncomfortable, too tight for you to breathe, but it's not. Somehow, when it's Steve that surrounds you, you feel perfectly safe.

 

+++

 

Steve tugs at the collar of his shirt, trying and failing to give himself an inch more of breathing room. Suits always make him uncomfortable, a reminder of too many funerals. He'd rather wear his Avengers uniform and run through a few exploding buildings, than spend the next few hours making small talk at Tony's charity gala. It's an uncomfortable event where socialites pay $10,000 a plate to rub elbows with celebrities. Tony strong-arms the Avengers into attending things like that several times a year. He _insists_. He also insists that Steve wear a tuxedo.

At least some good has come of it, if Steve counts the curve-hugging dress you're currently adjusting in front of the mirror. He sits on the foot of your bed, watching as you twirl the silky fabric of the skirt, examining your reflection from all sides.

"You look beautiful."

He's rewarded with a flash of your smile over your shoulder. [T-O-N-Y likes shopping] You cross the room to take his hand.

"Tony likes to spend money." He pulls you down for a kiss because he wants to. And because he can. "You _are_ coming, right?" Steve asks, when you part. You had changed your mind a few times, wavering over the potential media firestorm if the press discovers Captain America has a girlfriend.

You shift your hair over one shoulder. [I go with B-R-U-C-E]

"Thought you were my date," he says. He plays it off as a joke, but it comes out more childish than he had intended.

You roll your eyes. [you are Captain America]

"So?"

 [famous]

"So?" He smiles, pestering you on purpose.

[paparazzi] You smooth the lapels of his suit jacket then press a kiss to his cheek.

He turns his face so that his lips meet yours. "So?"

You don't stop the kiss when he does, instead leaning into him to pursue the contact. Steve ends up with you straddled over his lap and he is not thinking about the press anymore. Or the gala. Those went out of his brain along with current events, sports, and most of his high school education. But your dress… he is definitely thinking about your dress. Or, more accurately, what's under it. You smile against his lips.

His phone buzzes. He groans and wraps his arms more tightly around you. It buzzes again. He is intent on ignoring it, but you reach into his pocket—and _wow_ is that distracting—and pull the phone out to look at the screen.

[T-O-N-Y] You make a small frown. [you need to go]

He sighs, trailing his finger over your shoulder. "You'll save a dance for me?"

[every dance]

He lingers over your goodbye kiss long enough to consider skipping the gala altogether, but pulls away when his phone buzzes again.

 

+++

 

 You try to keep your jaw from physically dropping when you arrive at the gala, but it's a near thing.

[B-R-A-D P-I-T-T] You grab Bruce's elbow.

Bruce follows the direction of your gaze. "How does Tony know Brad Pitt?"

[T-O-N-Y knows everyone]

"Think he knows Gwyneth Paltrow?"

You give a wicked smile. [Maybe he slept with her]

He laughs and offers his arm to you as you scale the stairs.

You and Bruce slip into the gala without alerting the press that has assembled outside the event. The Hulk might be an Avenger, but Bruce's connection to him isn't common knowledge. You briefly imagine the Hulk in a tuxedo and suppress a smile.

You don't have to look for Steve once you get inside. He's mobbed on all sides: politicians, celebrities, women who can _only_ be models. Did Tony hire them to keep the crowd acceptably star studded? You really wouldn't put it past him.

Hired or not, they're flocking to Steve. Not surprising. He is something special to look at in his tux. On normal days, you like seeing him in his uniform. You like him in jeans and a t-shirt even better. You loved the one time you caught him in sweatpants. But the tuxedo for the gala? It might be your favorite so far. Maybe you can convince him to let you take it off slowly later tonight.

You catch his eye and offer a small wave. His expression lifts in response. There are hundreds of people between you and him. Getting a dance is going to be harder than you thought.

You settle for a drink. You've laid off alcohol since, well, since you've started to be afraid of yourself. Losing inhibitions isn't such a good idea when you can reduce a building to rubble with a laugh. But a vodka tonic sounds better than Christmas right now. It takes some wrangling to communicate your order to the bartender, but you get it—extra limes and all—and stand on the edge of the room watching the crowd.

The Avengers might have star power, but Tony drives their much-needed PR strategy.  They operate with no oversight and break a lot of buildings. Even if they do save the world, that rubs the powers-that-be the wrong way. The gala is more of a publicity stunt than an actual act of charity. Tony makes sure they stay on friendly terms, shake hands with the right people, and show that they're still patriots, even if they don't answer to the normal chain of command.

"Excuse me?" You startle at the voice at your shoulder. The man standing at your side gives an apologetic smile. "Sorry." He holds out his hand for you to shake. "Doctor Andrew Forson. It's nice to see you again." When you don't take his hand, his face falls. "I guess you don't remember me." He adjusts his glasses.

And just like that, you do. The specialist from the hospital, the one that discovered your powers for the first time. The shock must register on your face because he recoils a little.

"I'm sorry about everything that happened, but I am happy to see that you're doing better."

Better. Huh.

He waits, as if he's expecting an answer, which, of course he is. It's been months. Any normal doctor would expect you to have recovered by now. Especially if you are mingling in the world. Your heart wrenches. [sorry]

His face twists in something approximating sympathy. "Oh. I see. I thought—since you were here—I mean, when they said that you had gone with Stark—well, if you weren't a superhero by now, then… I assumed…" he trails off, but you know what he was going to say. He, like you, assumed that the Avengers would be able to fix you.

You look into your drink and watch as your festive mood dissipates into the bubbles.

"What treatments have you tried?"

Treatments? There had been no treatments—just examinations, tests, theories, and more tests. It's been months, and no, there hasn't been any progress. You and Bruce are still against the same wall where you'd started.

Forson interprets your silence correctly. "Oh." His hand comes to rest on your arm. He takes a step closer, dropping his voice. "I—I'm sorry. I thought… If I'd known, I would have done more. I would have—I would have insisted on you staying in my care."

His brown eyes shine with sincerity. You cast around for something to write on and settle for the paper napkin the bartender had handed to you with your drink. Now for a pen.

Forson holds one into your field of vision. "A good scientist never goes anywhere without one."

You smile and accept it. _Can you help?_

"I do hope so. I've had some time to look at the results I gathered during that short time we were together."

Your heartbeat doubles. _Dr. Banner—_

He stills your hand with his before you can finish writing the sentence. His face is sad. "I'm afraid that the treatment that my company has developed is proprietary. I cannot collaborate with outside researchers."

A flush rises over your cheeks. He can't—? How can he—? Bruce is your friend. And he's doing his best. He knows your data better than anyone does. And Forson acts like he's just out to make a quick buck by stealing someone else's work?

"Of course, if"—he checks what you wrote—"Dr. Banner is close to a breakthrough, by all means, I won't be offended by you staying with your current course of treatment." Your heart drops, like you've missed the last step on a staircase. "But, if you change your mind…" He fishes around the inside of his coat pocket and hands you a card from within. "Please feel free to contact me." With a last, awkward nod, he leaves you. You look at the card in your hand.

_Andrew Forson MD PhD_

_Advanced Idea Mechanics_

 

+++

 

Steve never really loses track of you. No matter where he is, you always catch his eye, floating near the edge of the crowd, watching the ebb and flow of guests. It takes hours of small talk and fake smiles and tense handshakes for Steve to slip away from the ever-present crowd. Sometimes he wishes he were still Steve Rogers: skinny kid from Brooklyn. It's not often, but it happens. And it happens more and more around you, when you're the only one that he wants paying attention to him.

You don't notice him as he approaches. Your eyes are focused somewhere distant, unseeing as you stir the still-full drink in your hand.

"How about that dance?"

You turn to him, the smile coming to your face a second too late. Something is wrong, he's sure of it, but then the feeling is replaced by the usual warmth that spreads in his chest when he sees you.

You set your drink aside and slide your hand into his. Steve doesn't usually make public displays of affection, but something about the way you step into his body and tangle your fingers through his melts everything inside him.

There aren't many people on the floor, but there is soft swing music playing.

"Gotta warn you," Steve says with an ease he doesn't feel, "I'm not much of a dancer."

Your smile makes his heart flip over inside his chest. He puts his hand on your waist, avoiding the cutouts on the side of your dress (fashion is strange). He is intensely aware of every inch of your body that he's touching and it's enough to make him forget all the YouTube dance tutorials he'd watched. In the end, the most he manages to do is sway while you lay your head against his chest. It's slow and gentle and perfect and if there was a way to make everyone else in the room disappear he would give everything he has—and quite a lot that he doesn't—to be alone with you.

Good things never last.

**+++**

The sound is the first thing that reaches you. The floor shakes, the subtlest warning before the explosion blows you off your feet. Steve covers you from most of the blast, shielding you from debris with his body. He rolls to his feet while you're still dazed.

Then the screams start.

The room erupts into chaos as people rush for the exits, shoving and tripping over one another. Steve pulls you to your feet. He shouts as he drags you along behind him, whether it's to you or the other Avengers, you don't know. You can't tell if there are still explosions. You can't tell if the floor is still shaking. You can't tell if you're breathing or not.

Steve's voice cuts through your haze, clear and focused. "Get back to the compound. Get as far as you can from here."

You nod, but when he tries to leave, your hands don't let go.

He turns back to you and grips your arms. "Go. I can't do this if you're here." He presses a bruising kiss to your lips. "You're going to be okay."

You nod again and this time manage to let him go. Adrenaline moves your feet and carries you to the stairwell. You follow the crowd down, letting herd instinct take over because that's easier than thinking about the danger that Steve is in. But once you get to the lobby, everything stops.

The crush of the crowd presses against the entrance of the building, but it doesn't give way. Collapsed concrete holds the doors closed from the outside. Your vision grays around the edges.

You're trapped. You're trapped, you're trapped you're trapped you'retrapped youretrapped youretrappedyou'retrappedyouretrappedyouretrappedyou'retrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrappedtrapped

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

_You're going to be okay._

You hear the thought in Steve's voice. It's the same steady tone he always has, the one that never fails to reassure you. Calm billows through your mind like a breeze and pushes aside the fog of terror that chokes you from all sides.

You force your way to the front of the crowd where some of the braver gala-goers push in vain against the glass. All that stands between you and the air outside is a few feet of concrete.

You've blasted through more in your sleep.

The crowd falls back as your shout echoes through the room. The glass windows at the front shatter, but the concrete behind holds. That's fine. You were just giving a warning. You have no way to tell the people at the front what you're about to do and you don't want to waste time miming your intentions. Those who were closest stagger back. While they're still reeling, you step forward, plant your feet, and scream.

The concrete in the front shudders, cracks, and blasts away. You step away, shielding yourself from the settling debris. When you look back, all you see is the night sky and flashing red and blue lights.

 


	6. Chapter 6

You sit in your room, lit by the television in front of you. You've sat here for hours, watching the same news footage repeat itself. There are no developments, nothing to report. The Avengers haven't returned and the news crews are scrambling to find anything about what happened at the gala.

_A terrorist attack. A senseless tragedy._

You pull your knees closer to your chest. You showered and changed when you got back to the compound, hoping the familiar motions would calm your mind or that there would be an update on the Avengers when you got out of the bathroom. There hadn't been. So you sit on the couch, your eyes glued to the screen. You don't know how long you can stay this way. It's possible that the Avengers won't be back for weeks. That's happened before.

The door opens with a bang.

"You here?" Steve's voice is laced with panic.

You jump off the couch. His body blocks the light coming through the door, leaving only the massive outline of his form, comforting in how big he is. You rush toward him and he meets you halfway to pull you into his crushing embrace. He squeezes just a little too hard, but he's there and he's whole and if you can't breathe, it's proof that he's fine.

He pushes you back from him, leaning to your level so he can peer into your eyes. "You okay?" His hands roam over you as if he's double-checking for himself. In the half dark of your suite, you can't make out his expression. "What happened?"

You place your hand over his, holding his palm to your cheek, and shake your head. Honestly… you don't know. Everything is a blur of adrenaline. Your flight down the stairs, the tomb of the lobby, the rush of freedom when you blew away the door… the memories have a dreamlike quality to them, as if it wasn't you experiencing them at all.

[you okay?]

"I'm good," he says. "I'm fine now." He pulls you back into his arms and rests his chin on top of your head.

 

+++

 

Steve insists on showering.

It's as much to clear his mind as to clean the sweat and grime from his body. They came after his family. They came after you. How could he not have found them? They had been there—right there! They had blown up a building while he was _in it_ and he hadn't been able to track them. He followed a dozen leads only to come away with his hands empty. That left a foul taste in his mouth. Stark is following up. The former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are using their contacts to find anything they can. They will find something. They have to. For now, there's nothing Steve can do.

So he showers. He takes his time under the icy water because he is wired. You were in danger, but you're safe now. His body has some ideas of its own about how he feels about that. He thought the frozen water would calm him down, but standing in _your_ shower, where everything smells like you, it's too easy for him to imagine.

He's done a lot of that lately. Imagining. The shower features prominently in more than one fantasy. As does the bed. And the coffee table. And a few of the walls. The gym is in there too, but he isn't about to try that outside the privacy of his own mind.

Porn has come a long way from the racy magazines that Bucky used to keep under his mattress in 1942. In some ways, Steve's grateful—if slightly horrified—but, most of the time, he's just intimidated. Women are… uh… not his forte. Before Dr. Erksine, no one would give him the time of day. After the serum, there wasn't much of an opportunity. Things with Peggy were swept up in a blur of missions with no time for anything more than stolen glances. When he woke up from the ice, he was Captain America: National Symbol, nothing else. 

And now he's in your shower and the icy water is not doing anything to convince his body to stand down. Because he keeps picturing you there too—all smiles and wet hair, hands on him because you want to be as close as possible. Your pink loofa is ridiculous, but he wouldn't say no to using it on you. Or he could ditch the loofa, just use his hands…

This is not working.

He turns off the water and steps out. Your dress lies in the corner of the bathroom where he hadn't noticed it before. He spares a moment of silent mourning for the night he'd hoped to have with you. You're safe. That's what counts. Not whether or not he got to slide the skirt off your hips.

You're in the bed when he emerges from the bathroom, curled into a ball under the comforter. The mattress dips under Steve's weight when he sits next to you, pulling you closer to him. You watch him as he strokes your hair back from your face.

Your fingers circle his wrist. It's a feather light touch but he feels the contact down to his toes. You couldn't actually restrain him, but the action has the same effect, as if you'd placed a manacle around his arm. You tug at him, trying to pull him next to you, but he resists.

That would be a bad idea. He'd thought the shower would buy him time to cool off, but it had done the opposite. His sweatpants aren't exactly concealing anything and he doesn't want you to feel like… like he's expecting something. You're special. And you're his. He's not screwing that up.

You sit back on your heels, the blanket falling from your shoulders and— _geez_ —he loves how that looks. [was worried about you] you sign.

"I'm okay." He cups your face in his hand, skimming his thumb over your cheek. "Promise."

[please stay]

Steve swallows, steering his imagination away from all the things he wants that to mean. "If you want."

You crawl into his lap and wrap yourself as closely around him as you can get. He hesitates and then folds his arms around you to pull you even closer. He loves the way you fit against his body, all soft where he's hard. Your arms tighten around his waist and you rub your nose against his chest. Something around Steve's heart melts.

 

+++

 

So far, everything physical in your relationship with Steve has been hesitant as the two of you have tested the waters, trying to find boundaries. Every step forward has been a tentative back and forth, a gentle inquiry from Steve as he gives you plenty of room to backtrack. He lets you take the lead on everything, from cuddling to kissing to wherever this goes after that. It's like high school: all desperate want and build up and longing. And here he is, being a gentleman while you're trying to seduce him. It would be infuriating if it weren't so damn endearing.

You would _love_ if his hands wandered farther than the safe space around your waist—either direction, you’re really not picky. You’re only wearing a t-shirt, for Christ’s sake, and it’s _his_ shirt. There isn’t an inch of skin that you don’t want him to touch. But Steve is acting like this is some sort of sexual harassment video and your body is marked with "no zones". You're almost offended by how careful he is. If you weren't sitting on his lap, you'd think he wasn't into you. Seriously, how does anyone have this much self-control?

You run your fingers through his hair, grazing your nails against his scalp, and scrape your teeth over his bottom lip. Okay, yeah—his hands pressing your hips harder into him does all kinds of good things for you.

He's trying to be discrete about copying you, but every time you do something to him, a few minutes later he tries it on you. Your lips against his neck, a small nip at his ear, your fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt… So, he's learning. Adorable. But you could use a little initiative from him. Really just _more_. You swivel your hips against his and his whole body jerks in response. _Bingo_.

He flips you over on the bed, swinging you onto your back so he's above you. A startled squeak escapes your throat and, for the barest moment, the room shakes. When you look to Steve in alarm, he's smirking at you, like your loss of control is exactly what he wanted, like he's _pleased_ with himself. You make a face at him and the smile turns into a full-blown grin.

He kisses you forever, long, drugging kisses that leave you dizzy and wanting more. Even when he's on top of you, he holds his body off yours. There's something deliberate about the way he touches you, like he planned every exploration. He laces his fingers through yours and it's so _achingly_ sweet. You arch into him, trying to deepen the kiss, anything to get closer, but he won't be rushed. He's just so frustratingly in control. 

You make a mental catalogue of the things he likes—which is just about everything. He likes your hands in his hair, or on his arms, or against his chest—really, anywhere you touch him. He forgets to breathe when you trace your fingers along the line of his hips. A love bite on his neck makes him say something that might be a desperate interpretation of your name.

You slide your thigh between his legs and are rewarded with a breathy moan.

" _God_ ," Steve says, his lips against your throat. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Well, if he's looking for suggestions…

<Pardon the interruption.> Friday's serene voice sails through the room. Steve freezes. <You are needed for a debriefing in the conference room.>

He heaves a massive sigh, letting his forehead fall to your shoulder. "Kind of busy right now." There's resignation in his voice, as if he knows that the protest is futile.

Friday chimes in again. <The call is not for you, Captain Rogers.>

 

+++

 

You are not included in debriefings. Not normally. Your insides twist with the expectation of what is important enough that Stark wants to talk to you. Well, that and fighting the urge to take Steve back to your room and show him exactly where you want him to put his hands. But, Friday's call had seemed more like an order than a request and you don't want Tony Stark personally banging down your door. Steve follows on your heels.

Stark paces the conference room, talking on the phone in a voice that seems beyond control, loud enough to be heard outside the glass walls of the room. "—course we have a handle on the—yes I will be providing more information—right now we have bigger—" His eyes catch on you as you enter. "I'll call you back." He tosses the phone onto the table.

 The conference room is chaos. Stark has turned each monitor to a different news station, but they're all running the same footage.

You. Dozens and dozens of pictures of you. Three grainy security video clips: you approaching the blocked wall of the building, the entrance exploding outward, and you helping the other people out over the rubble. The commentary is a din of questions and conjecture. _Who are you? What are you capable of? Who do you work for?_ Your blood runs cold.

"Congratulations," Tony says. "You're famous." He leans against the table. "They're calling you Clamor. Not the worst superhero name, but the PR people will wish they'd gotten a chance to test it with the focus groups first."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Steve has his Captain America voice in action again.

" _Clamor_ "—he gestures to you—"is the Avenger's newest recruit."

[not Avenger] you protest.

"No shit." Tony stands and walks around the room. "But that's what I've had to tell people all morning. DOD, CIA, FBI, NSA, the _White House_ for Christ's sake. You know what they want to know? Not did we catch the terrorists, not if we have any leads, but who is the woman who can blast through twenty feet of concrete?"

You stick to your guns, refusing to let Tony walk you in a circle. [NOT AVENGER]

"You probably should have thought about that before you blew through half a city block like a stick of dynamite."

[we were trapped]

"Help people all you want. Just don't do it in front of a fucking camera." Tony doesn't lose his cool often, but the fine line between anger and humor has gotten thinner throughout this conversation. "You can't put this cat back in the bag. You're an unknown variable. Either, we claim you as an Avenger or they'll take you into custody."

Steve steps forward, moving his body not so subtly between yours and Tony's. "She's not a threat."

"The whole world just saw her take out a building. The most I can do is convince the military that she didn't cause the first explosion. They want her controlled—as part of the team or in a cell."

"She's been here for months. This doesn't change anything."

"This changes _everything_. They know about her now." Tony whacks the table and you jump a little. "Why do you think I've been keeping her here? Under wraps?"

Your focus drifts back to the TV. You hadn't thought about cameras when you'd stepped forward. You hadn't even thought about the other people in the room. You had wanted an exit and you got it. Now you're trapped in a wholly different way. 

"The Secretary of Defense is going to show up tomorrow morning and he's going to want a game plan." Tony turns his attention from Steve to you. "There's no neutral territory here. As long as you have your powers, either you're on the team or you're considered a threat. Unless you wake up tomorrow singing show tunes, those are your choices."

 

+++

 

You corner Bruce in the med lab. [can you fix me?]

Bruce looks as if you're tearing his soul from his body. "I—look, it's… difficult to say."

[why?]

"I don't—" He backs into a cabinet of medical supplies, startling himself.

[please]

As if you'd flipped some sort of switch, he starts talking, his voice detached and clinical. He looks at his shoes, the monitors in the room, anywhere except you. "The gamma radiation fundamentally altered your gene expression." Your heart stutters. "It's similar to the changes that I've seen in my own results. And… in Steve's."

Bruce's gaze flicks to your face, absorbing your reaction, then away. "I know a lot more about what happened to me than what Erksine developed for the super soldier serum. But I _was_ trying to replicate it. Since the—the symptoms were similar, I thought that the combination of the serum and the radiation was necessary to produce the effects, but studying you… I'm not sure." His head hangs between his shoulders.

"It's possible that the gamma is enough to alter DNA on its own. Maybe the serum just directed it? Without it…"—he gestures to you—"the effects are unpredictable. I'm in the dark. If you asked me to guess… the radiation should have killed you."

You search for an answer, racking years of experience for anything. [medication?]

"I wouldn't even know where to start."

There has to be a way out. If you can't have your old life back, at least you can keep from hurting people. [cut vocal chords?]

"No." Bruce's voice brooks no argument. "I might hurt you or make it worse. And even if I did, there's no guarantee that it would be a permanent solution. The radiation has changed the makeup of your DNA. Your body might heal back exactly the way it is now."

[reverse D-N-A change?]

"I don't know how. I thought if I knew what caused…"

[gene therapy?]

"I thought about that! But every test I've run shows that your DNA reverts back from the changes."

You're having trouble breathing. [you can't fix me?]

"I'm going to keep trying. _I promise_. But, medical technology isn't there yet. Right now, I don't think there is anything I can do."

Your heart plummets into your shoes.

 

+++

 

Forson's business card weighs heavy in your hand, as if it's made from stone rather than paper. You feel dirty, going to him after you've worked so closely with the Avengers. Bruce is great and brilliant, but he says he can't help you. And Forson said he can.

Stark wants you to stay in the compound and that is exactly what you _should_ do. But you need to get outside, preferably without alerting the entire security force. That's where Steve comes in.

God help you, you are a piece of shit for doing it, but you asked him to take you to a movie. Well, not so much asked as begged. He's worried about you— _seriously_ worried about you—the kind of worry that makes him watch you out of the corner of his eyes whenever he thinks you aren't paying attention. He wants you to stay in the compound too, so it's not easy to convince him. But with enough [please]'s and hopeful looks, he breaks.

You both wear disguises. Like Tony said, you're famous now, so you're in a ball cap too. Steve keeps you tucked under his arm as you enter the building, blocking your face from cameras with his body. It just makes you feel even worse to see how dedicated he is to protecting you. You slip out of the theater a few minutes before the ads start with an apologetic sign about the bathroom.

You leave your phone behind in the theater with Steve. Can't call an Uber. Can't use your metro card. Stark can track all of those if he wants to. A taxi is your best bet.

You have a few minutes before Steve will wonder what happened to you, then a few minutes more before he gets anxious enough to come looking. You leave the theater and keep walking, crossing streets and turning corners where you can until you find an open cab. You show the driver the address on Forson's business card and settle back.

It's not nearby, but that's probably for the best. When Steve comes looking for you, you don't want to be easy to find.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Coming to Forson was stupid. Sure, it's your only option if you're going to escape the ever-tightening noose that is the Avengers' Compound. That doesn't mean trusting Forson isn't dumb and desperate and a betrayal of Sam and Wanda and Bruce and… Steve. Your heart wrenches.

You wait in a standard examination room and look, unseeing, at the mass-produced, abstract art that somehow finds its way into every hospital and clinic. Medical facilities are all the same. The same white walls, the same year-old magazines, the same expressions of polite concern. _Follow me. Can I get you anything? How do you feel?_ Eyes filled with questions you can't answer, even if you could speak.

Forson comes into the room, adjusting his glasses as he does. "I'm glad you contacted us." His smile is a little too broad, more like a dog baring its teeth. He squeezes your shoulder, a touch too familiar for your comfort.

Forson does some preliminary work, drawing blood and making a thorough examination of your throat. He chuckles a little when he slips up and asks you to say 'ah'. You don't smile. This isn't a game to you. You want to find out what treatment he has in mind and get it over with as soon as possible. And the longer you stay here, the more you think about leaving all together, cure be damned.

"After that mess at the gala," he says, "I wasn't sure what had happened. Then seeing you all over the news… I thought for sure the Avengers would have their paws on you. But, I really think we can help. Gamma radiation really isn't a toy."

Gamma? How did he know about that? Bruce said no one at the hospital had run your samples for radiation. You hadn't mentioned it. But during your recovery… Forson pushed you into using your voice, into revealing your powers. How could he have known? But… he had. From the first day he came to your hospital room. What was a specialist from New York doing in an L.A. hospital in the first place?

 _Oh god—_ you recognize him. Not just from the gala or your recovery. From the hospital. Walking past the fountain. Before the explosion. _Before_. That's not—that doesn't mean—but he had been there! You saw him walk in. There was no way… He was inside the building for the first explosion. He should have been injured. Unless…

Forson leaves and you make a circuit of the examination room. Then another. Your stomach twists. There's nothing out of the ordinary here—nothing that would tip you off that something is wrong—but something is wrong. You feel it under your skin.

They never found the cause of the explosion. No one took credit for the terrorist attack. Because it wasn't a terrorist attack. What had Bruce said? That gamma by itself might cause changes. Unpredictable changes. What if someone like Forson knew that? What if _that's_ why they flooded the hospital with radiation?

You try the doorknob—no luck. Not that you were hopeful. You think of Forson's overly familiar smile. If they're trying to keep up appearances… You knock on the door and wait until you hear footsteps in the hall. You give the nurse that answers an apologetic smile and hold up a post-it. _Bathroom?_

Her face falls, but only for a second. The smile is back in place before you can process the look that had replaced it. She leads you down the hallway, past dozens of closed doors, to a room with a single toilet. You smile politely when you close the door. Then you wait. You've been a nurse; you _know_ it's coming. So you wait and wait and wait for the inevitable to happen.

A commotion erupts further down the hall. Someone screams incoherently. Doctors yell for help. There are a few seconds before your nurse's footsteps hurry away from your door. Yep, unruly patient to the rescue. You slip out of the room and down the hall. Locked door, locked door, locked door… _Aha!_

The room is dark and you leave it that way. No telling how long you have before the distraction runs out. There's a computer terminal in this room, its screensaver softly lighting the shadows. Not that you know what you're looking for, but seeing their patient files can't _hurt_ , right?

You sit on the rolling chair in front of the monitor. There's a log in screen, but where isn't there? Okay, medical IT is not that secure, this shouldn't be too hard.

 **Password** : _password_

**PASSWORD INCORRECT**

**Password** : _admin_

**PASSWORD INCORRECT**

**Password** : _12345_

**PASSWORD INCORRECT**

Worth a shot. You rifle through the contents of the counter around the computer. Scrap paper, notebooks, stray pens—post-it note! "C#x23d&" looks like a password to you.

And you're in. You make a mental note to burn your password notebook when you get home. Home… if you still have one. Would the Avengers let you back into the compound after this? Would Steve talk to you even if they did?

You push the thought aside; it's not helpful to dwell on that right now. Instead, you busy yourself with opening files. Weight, blood pressure, lots of standard medical information. It takes a few minutes to get past the basic memos and notes and into the real meat of what they're doing here, what they plan to do to you.

Oh.

.

.

.

.

Oh _no_.

 

+++

 

Steve downshifts the motorcycle and zooms around an SUV on the highway. Tony's voice filters through the speaker in his helmet. <I don't think she was taken from the theater by force.>

"She wouldn't have just left, Tony."

<Camera footage is telling a different story, Cap.>

"Do you have a line on where she went or not?"

<Other than 'north in a taxi', no, not yet. F.R.I.D.A.Y. is piecing together camera footage from thousands of different security cameras all over the city. It's going to take time.>

"Give me _anything_."

Tony makes a disgruntled growl. <If the cabby used some sort of GPS to get to the address…>

"Where is it?"

<Working on it. I have to find the right—>

"Tony!"

<Patching it through to your helmet.>

When did Tony mess with his helmet? Steve doesn't have time to dwell on it. The face shield lights up, directing his route through traffic. Schematics of the facility at the address display on one side. It's an ordinary office building, at least from the outside.

Tony swears in his earpiece.

"What?"

<The building is owned by Andrew Forson, Advanced Idea Mechanics.>

Steve doesn't respond, but adjusts his grip on the handlebars and presses the engine faster.

 

+++

 

Radiation poisoning. They had exposed their patients to gamma on a massive scale. Like, a catastrophically massive scale. The kind of levels that liquefy internal organs. And for most of the patients, that is exactly what had happened. Something like 99.9% of them.

They had cataloged their patients over _years_ , intentionally poisoning people. This wasn't mercy. It wasn't even medicine.

It was research to destroy Captain America.

Bruce was right; the same circumstances that had resulted in your abilities had created Steve. The Vita-Rays Howard Stark used to spur the physical change that created Captain America were nothing more than repackaged gamma radiation. These people—whoever they are—they know how to give powers to people. At least, sort of. They don't know yet what makes a person capable of surviving the process. They're still trying to figure out how to remove them. Because that's the goal: remove the powers of those with special abilities, turn Captain America back into plain Steve Rogers. Not to mention Wanda, Bruce—hell maybe even Thor—anyone with the ability to stand in their way.

The lights flick on.            

"Did you get lost?" Forson still wears the same smile, the one that doesn't reach his eyes. You stand, hands balled into fists at your side. "I'm guessing no." He pushes his lips together and puts his hands on his hips. "You know, you're our first success in a while, and the first one from a field test, so I'd hate to hurt you." You take a step back as he advances toward you. "I didn't lie when I said we could cure you. We're very close to a breakthrough. We just needed one more test subject." You back into the wall and he continues into your space. "I'm sorry it had to be this way, that it took so much sacrifice to get the right result. All those people… but we have you now. This is good. You can help us." He stops a foot in front of you. "Wouldn't the world be better if there had never been super heroes?"

[fuck you]

He smirks. "That didn't look friendly." Green light radiates from his arms, arcing between his fingers in electric spurts. He sees your gaze go to his hands. The smile becomes genuine. "Just a little gamma radiation. My specialty." He lifts his hand toward his face to watch the effect. "Don't worry. You've survived it before."

 

+++

 

When Steve arrives, the facility doesn't look like the image that Friday had patched through to him. In fact, it doesn't seem much like a building anymore at all. Wiring and lights spark in the open space where the south wall of the building should have been.

An explosion shakes the ground and Steve jerks to the source of the noise in time to see you running out of the building under an assault of rubble. You turn around, eyes trained toward the building. You favor your left side, holding one hand to your ribs, but your face is set, fierce anger burning in your eyes. You shout and the sound knocks over a concrete wall. Steve's never seen you use your powers like this. Never on purpose. Never offensively.

His feet move under him before he gives them the command. You're so focused that you don't notice Steve until he's by your side. Your look of shock turns to relief. You reach to him to squeeze his hand in yours.

"You need to go," Steve says.

You shake your head.

Steve doesn't get to argue the point. The wall you knocked over flies back with a burst of green light and Steve gets his first real look at what you're facing. He glows green all over, like a radioactive rod. Smoke rises from his clothes where holes have burned through the fabric. Well, that's certainly something.

"Forson?" Steve asks. You nod.

Forson throws back the rest of the rubble in a burst of green light, shaking the debris from his body. The energy around his hands condenses, pulling into a tight ball.

Crap.

Steve dodges to the side, pulling you along with him, as the fireball flies in your direction. You tumble over each other as the ball explodes against the pavement where you'd stood.

Steve stands first, rising to a protective crouch over you. He rests his hand on your shoulder, keeping you out of the line of fire. Now would be a great time for backup to arrive; he could really use his shield. How was he supposed to know a date would turn into a rescue mission? Without his gear, Steve is exposed. He can handle that, he's been in tight spots before, but he won't take chances with you.

"Stay down," Steve warns you. "Get somewhere safe when you can."

He doesn't wait to see your response, instead taking off at a cautious jog across what is left of the parking lot. He ducks behind the larger pieces of debris as he goes, keeping cover where he can.  The ground shakes under the assault of more fireballs, the radioactive heat licking at Steve's heels. They explode against his cover, spraying him with debris.

A manhole cover sticks up from what's left of the drainage system. Steve grabs it as he breaks into a full run. He launches it across the space left between him and Forson. It's heavier than the shield, but heavy isn't a problem for Steve. It'll do. It hits Forson squarely in the chest, knocking him backwards into the building. Good. Steve hopes it breaks his sternum.

He doesn't wait to find out, though, pursuing his makeshift weapon into what is left of the facility. Forson staggers to his feet in time for Steve to land a kick to his chest. From this close range, the air shimmers in the heat. Steve connects with a few more hits, each burning as if he's punching lava, before Forson rallies.

The first punch catches Steve across the jaw. While Steve's guard is down, Forson follows it up with a series of hits that send Steve stumbling back, then unleashes a fireball that blasts Steve back twenty feet. Steve hits a column and the concrete splits against his back. He collapses along with the pillar. Super soldier serum or not, stars spin in front of his eyes.

When he looks up, Forson approaches, green light flaring from his center like a fire burning out of control. Steve pushes, but the concrete weighs him down, pinning his legs. The green glow pulses and Steve makes a Herculean effort to pull himself free. The rubble shifts, but not fast enough. 

A shout shatters the air and Forson stumbles back, the surge of energy that built around him shrinking back into his body. You crouch by Steve's side, tearing at the rubble that traps him.

You help him to his feet and Steve grabs your hand to pull you toward the front of the building.  "What are you still doing here? You gotta get—" The rest of his sentence is cut off by an explosion of concrete from above. Steve shoves you one direction, dodging in the other.  He rolls to his feet, ready. A green glow advances from the depths of the building. Steve landed outside. You did not. You're still in the building, trapped between Steve and Forson. The radiation grows, licking at the pillars around it.

You stand, swaying unsteadily, and look back at Steve, a long, sad, desperate gaze. Then you plant your feet and face Forson.

Steve's heart drops into his stomach.

No.

You wouldn't do that to him.

You _can't_.

Steve lurches forward, too focused on you to process the danger. Your scream rocks the building, the ground, the air itself. Everything shakes under your assault. With a tremendous crack, the supports of the building give way.

You flinch as the concrete rushes to the ground, smothering everything in its path. Steve pulls you into his arms before the first of the rubble strikes around him.

 

+++

 

You sit in the conference room with Stark, just the two of you for the first time since the day you met him at the hospital. Your shoulder is dislocated and your throat is sore and you have more bandages than anyone should, but you're alive. Alive enough to be debriefed.

"Officially," he starts, "you were sent on a mission to infiltrate and neutralize a terrorist facility involved in the creation of a bioweapon. So, between you, me, and the Department of Defense, this all went according to plan."

Well, that's better than jail.

Stark fiddles with a pen on the table, then looks to you. "What actually happened?"

You give him the details as well as you can, supplementing writing where you don't know the signs. About Forson before the explosion, at the hospital after, at the gala. About what he said he could do and what the files had revealed. Stark watches you through inscrutable eyes. Not judging—not exactly—but appraising.

"Why did you do it?"

The knife of shame that's stuck in your side ever since you left Steve at the movie theater twists. Answering the question means admitting your betrayal. [said he could cure me]

"How?"

[don't know] Forson had interrupted you before you could see the details of that part of the process. [you find computer files?]

"Everything was destroyed before we could get to it. Between you and Mr. Boom Boom, there wasn't anything to salvage."

[F-O-R-S-O-N dead?]

"We didn't find him."

[others?]

"No bodies."

You think of the dozens of staff that you'd passed in the building. Had they all really gotten out? Or had someone removed their remains? Forson had destroyed everything rather than have it fall into the Avengers' hands. Whatever he was planning, it didn't end with that building's demise.

You fidget, then get to the question that is most pressing. [what now?]

"I thought that was obvious. You join the team."

You cringe. [not hero]

Stark's lips press into a thin line. He takes a deep breath. "Let me show you something." It takes a few taps on his phone to find what he's looking for and put it onto the monitor. You recognize the building, the hospital where you worked before Forson blew it to hell. People move in and out of the doors, oblivious to what will eventually become of them. A figure sits on a bench in front of the fountain. You.

"You know what I like about this video?" Stark asks.

Your heart clenches as you watch the explosion rock the image, smoke and debris billowing out from the crippled building. You shake your head.

"You can actually _see_ it happen." The figure in the video looks up from the ground and pushes herself to her feet, her eyes already trained on the hospital.

[see what?]

She staggers forward, touching whatever she can to regain her balance, but still moving toward the chaos. Stark watches you. "The moment you became a hero. You had the chance to turn back. You could have run away. No one would have blamed you. No one would have even known. Instead, you went toward the danger. No backup, no plan, no powers. You chose to be a hero."

[not choose] you argue. [not think]

"Exactly. You didn't think about it. You just did it. Powers don't make you a hero. It's who you are."

He sits down across from you, a weirdly friendly gesture from him. "You have a choice this time. It's all up to you. I'd like you to stay here. You don't have to. If anyone asks, we'll deny knowledge of your whereabouts. You can go your way." He pauses. "Or you can be what you already are: an Avenger."

 

+++

 

Steve waits for you on your bed when you get back to your room. He sits at the very edge, like he might need to leave at any moment. You pause in the doorway. You haven't been able to be alone with him since… well, since everything.

Since you betrayed him to meet with someone who wanted to kill him.

Since he came to your rescue.

Since you saved his life.

Since he saved yours.

He watches his hands, something he does when he has more on his mind than he knows how to say. You kneel at his feet, afraid that he won't look at you if you aren't right in front of him.

[really sorry]

He nods.

[I didn't want to leave you]

He nods again. You take his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you for the first time. His gaze meet yours and you forget to breathe. _God_ , you can see everything he's thinking, every flicker of emotion that crosses those blue eyes. Pain and relief and anger. It hurts to see it, a naked soul in front of you, like he has no secrets.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks.

There is so much more in that question than the mere words he speaks. _Why did you leave? How could you do this? Why would you betray me?_ All the other thoughts, half-formed, hover in the air between you.

[I don't want to be broken]

"You're not broken."

Your teeth scrape over your bottom lip. How can Steve understand? His powers were a blessing to him; yours are a curse. [you want to help people] you sign. He nods. [your powers help people] He strokes your cheek with his fingers. [I want to help people] His thumb smears something wet over your skin and you realize that tears are sliding from your eyes.  [my powers hurt people] He opens his mouth to cut you off, but you forge ahead. [if I can't help people] you sign, [I am not me]

"That's not true. You help people. You help us—me and Bruce and—"

You turn away, unable to bear the intensity of his eyes. [I don't want to hurt people] Tears stream down your face in earnest now. You wipe them with the back of your hand. [I don't want to hurt you]

"You can't, sweetheart. I promise. You can't hurt me."

[not fair to you]

"How? You're perfect."

You struggle to put words to the thought, the sheer unfairness of the situation, how much he's missing by being with you. [I can't laugh] you sign. [I can't talk] He shakes his head. [I can't tell you I love you]

Steve drags you into a crushing kiss, your body pressed flush against him. He's not careful this time and for once you can feel all the super soldier power that he usually holds back.

You're left breathless when he pulls away, gripping your shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. "Don't, okay? Please? Just… don't." he says.  He tugs at you until you relent and let him pull you onto his lap. He wraps his arms around your waist and lets his forehead fall to your shoulder. You can feel his heart race through the material in his shirt and your heart does a little flip flop at the knowledge that it’s because of you. You stay that way for a few minutes, soaking up each other's presence.

He lets you go, but only far enough to rest his forehead against yours and brushes his fingers through your hair, letting his hand linger over the back of your neck. "I don’t know what I'd do without you. Don't run off and put yourself in danger."

You smile a little sadly. [not always safe] He looks like he's going to argue with you, but you cut him off. [I told T-O-N-Y I would be an Avenger]

He stares at you, a myriad of emotions flickering over his face. "Is… that what you want?" His hand tightens on the back of your neck.

[I want to be cured] you sign [until then I’m an Avenger]

He pulls you back into his arms and buries his face in your neck. Muffled through your hair, you hear, "What am I gonna do with you?"

Well... 

If he's looking for suggestions…

.

.

.

.

End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story. I appreciate each and every one of you! _The Silence Between Us_ is the first part of a series of Avengers x Reader stories called _No More Heroes_. Below you’ll find an excerpt from _If You Were Here_ , the next fic in the series. 
> 
>    
>  **If You Were Here [Tony x Reader]**
> 
> F.R.I.D.A.Y. has a bug. 
> 
> Not just any bug, the buggiest bug in the history of bugs.
> 
> The coffee machine is supposed to turn on at 7:00am. Instead, it turns on at 7:05am. 7:05. Which is five minutes after Steve gets back from his run—just long enough for Steve to think that the machine won't turn on and make coffee himself.
> 
> Seven-fucking-oh-five.
> 
> Tony reset the software. He rewrote the software. He bought a new coffee maker. How could replacing the machine not fix the problem?
> 
> It's a nightmare. Tony's own personal hell. The coffee gods have a vendetta against him, he's sure.
> 
> Finding the damn bug is like inspecting a shadow with a flashlight. Every time he thinks he catches it, it vanishes into the binary from which it came with nothing but a smattering of loose code in its wake—a goddamn Cheshire cat, disappearing except for its smile.


End file.
